—  ■     ..  tm 


nb^MBBSMami,. 


THE  COLLEGE  LIBRARY, 

BY 

FREDERIC  W.  FARRAR,  D.  D.,  F.  R.  S. 

Late  Master  of  Marlborough  College. 


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E.    P.    DUTTON    &    CO.,    Publishers. 
New  York, 


THE   BOAT   RACE.    Page  108. 


JULIAN  HOME 


A  TALE  OF  COLLEGE  LIFE 


BY 


FREDERIC  W.  FARRAR,  D.  D. 

aUSTEB     OF    MARLBOROUGH     COLLEGE;     AUTUOR    OF    "THE    LIFE    OF    CHRIST," 
"  ERIC  ;    OR,  LIIXLE  BV  UITLE,""  "  ST.  WINIFREDS,"  ETC 


AfAiJ'oi'  atKivov  eiVe,  TO  A'ET  NIKATO 

.OiiSCH.  Aa  156 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

31  West  23D  Street 
1894 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 


o 
c  c 


•  «    « 

•  •   • 


•  «  fc 


c.  ..;  '..  :•:  •••.   .••../•    •  ••• 


TO 


H.  M.  B.,  V.  L.,  AND  C.  J.  M. 

OF    TRINITY    COLLEGE,    CAMBRIDGE, 

^  THE    ONLY    SURVIVORS   OF   OUR    "  SHAKSPEARE   SOCIETf/ 

W 

re 

THIS   TALE   OF   COLLEGE   LIFE 

O  18 

J} 

a 
a: 

O  AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED 

o 

< 


BY 


ce  ONE  WHO  IS  PROUD  TO  BE  THEIR  FRIEND. 

IX. 

O 

C 
o 


429336 


PREFACE. 


ReA-Der,  even  if,  in  the  stor}^  of  Julian  Home, 
I  should  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  arouse  your 
aniagonism  or  offend  your  taste,  at  least  believe 
that  it  has  been  my  earnest  endeavor  to  write 
with  fearlessness  and  honesty ;  that  it  has  been 
my  sincere  desire  to  avoid  causing  needless 
pain;  and  that  it  has  been  my  one  object  "to 
lend  aidor  to  virtue,  and  confidence  to  truth." 

1*  (v) 


CONTENTS. 


FAR! 

Chapter  I. — Speech  Day  at  Harton 9 

[I. — .Julian  Home 19 

III. — A  Retrospect .....     28 

IV. — How  Julian  Lost  a  Fortune 41 

V. — Saint  Werner's 55 

VI. — Rencounters 72 

VII. — The  Scorn  of  Scorn 84 

VIII. — Study  and  Idleness 97 

EX.— The  Boat-race 108 

X. — Contrasts 117 

XI. — Screwed  in 127 

XII. — A  Gust  of  the  Soul 140 

XIII. — The  Clerkland  Scholarship 151 

XIV.— Mr.  Garden 170 

XV. — Kennedy's  Dishonor 179 

XVI.— A  Day  of  Wonder 196 

XVII.— A  Night  of  Terror 210 

XVIII.— The  Alpen-Gluhen 220 

XIX.— Only  a  Blush 229 

(vii) 


VIU  CONTENTS. 

PAOE 

Chapter  XX. — BRUCfc  the  Tempter 238 

XXI. — One  of  the  Simple  Ones 250 

XXII. — De  Vatne's  Temptation 264 

XXIII. — Kennedy's    Wine -Party,    and    what     came 

OF  IT 277 

XXIV.— De  Vayne's  Christmas  Holidays 289 

XXV. — Memouy  the  Book  of  God 301 

XXVI.— Hazlet's  Vision 318 

XXVII. — Julian  and  Kennedy 336 

XXVIII.— Kennedy's  Despair 346 

XXIX. — Eva  enters  the  Chapel 358 

XXX. — Repentance 370 

XXXI.— Bruce  in  Trouble 383 

XXXII.— A  Quiet  Prospect 397 

XXXIIL— Farewsl)!, 409 


JULIAT^    HOME. 


CHArTER   I. 

SPEECH    DAY    AT    IIARTON. 

"A  little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  there, 
And  here  a  chancellor  in  embryo." — Shensione. 

It  was  Speech  day  at  Ilarton.  From  an  early  lioui 
handsome  equipages  had  been  dashing  down  the  street, 
and  depositing  their  occupants  at  the  masters'  houses. 
The  perpetual  rolling  of  wheels  distracted  the  attention 
every  moment,  and  curiosity  was  keenly  on  the  alert  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  various  magnates  whose  arrival 
was  expected.  At  the  Queen's  Head  stood  a  large 
array  of  carriages,  and  the  streets  were  thronged  with 
gay  groups  of  pedestrians,  and  full  of  bustle  and  liveli- 
ness. 

The  visitors — chiefly  parents  and  relatives  of  the 
Harton  boys  —  occupied  the  morning  in  seeing  the 
school  and  village,  and  it  was  a  pretty  sight  to  observe 
mothers  and  sisters  as  they  wandered  with  delighted 
interest  through  the  scenes  so  proudly  pointed  out  to 
them  by  their  young  escort.  Some  of  them  were  stroll- 
ing over  the  cricket-field,  or  through  the  pleasant  path 
down  to  the  bathing-place.     Many  lingered  in  the  beau- 

(9) 


10  HARTON. 

tiful  cbapej,".  on  whbcfe  ■  pam'ted  windows  the  sunlight 
streamed,  .making  them  flame  like  jeweh'y,  and  flinging 
their  fait  shadows- of  blue -and  scarlet  and  crimson  on 
the  delicate  carving  of  the  pillars  on  either  side.  But, 
on  the  whole,  the  boys  were  most  proud  of  showing 
their  friends  the  old  school-room,  on  whose  rude  panels 
many  a  name  may  be  deciphered,  carved  there  by  the 
boyish  hand  of  poets,  orators,  and  statesmen,  who,  in 
the  zenith  of  their  fame,  still  looked  back  with  fond 
remembrance  on  the  home  of  their  earlier  days,  and 
some  of  whom  were  then  testifying  by  their  presence 
the  undying  interest  which  they  took  in  their  old 
school. 

The  pleasant  morning  wore  away,  and  the  time  for 
the  speeches  drew  on.  The  room  was  thronged  with  a 
distinguished  company,  and  presented  a  brilliant  and 
animated  appearance.  In  the  center  was  a  table  loaded 
with  prize-books,  and  all  round  it  sat  the  secular  and 
episcopal  dignitaries,  for  whom  seats  had  been  reserved, 
while  the  chair  was  occupied  by  a  young  prince  of  the 
royal  house.  On  the  other  side  was  a  slightly  elevated 
platform,  on  which  were  seated  the  monitors  who  were 
to  take  part  in  the  day's  proceedings,  and  behind  it, 
under  the  gallery  set  apart  for  old  Hartonians,  crowded 
a  number  of  gentlemen  and  boys  who  could  find  no 
room  elsewhere. 

"Now,  papa,"  said  a  young  lady  sitting  opposite  the 
monitors,  "I've  been  asking  Walter  here  which  is  the 
cleverest  of  those  boys." 

"Ahem !  young  men,  you  mean,"  interrupted  her 
elder  sister. 

•'  No,  no  I"  said  Walter,  positively ;  "  call  them  boys ; 


PHYSIOGNOMIES.  11 

to  call  them  young  men  is  all  bosli ;  we  shall  have 
*  young  gentlemen'  next,  which  is  awful  twaddle." 

"  Well,  which  of  those  boys  on  the  platform  is  the 
cleverest — the  greatest  swell  he  calls  it  ?  Now  you 
profess  to  be  a  physiognomist,  papa,  so  just  see  if  you 
can  guess." 

"I'm  to  look  out  for  some  future  Byron  or  Peel 
among  them,  eh,  Walter  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  old  gentleman  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  delib- 
erately looked  round  the  row  of  monitors,  who  were 
awaiting  the  head-master's  signal  to  begin  the  speeches. 

"  Well,  haven't  you  done  yet,  papa  ?  What  an  age 
you  are  I     Walter  says  you  ought  to  tell  at  a  glance." 

"Patience,  my  dear — patience.  I'll  tell  you  in  a 
minute.  There,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"  that  boy  seated  last  but  one  on  the  bench  nearest  us 
has  more  genius  than  any  of  them,  I  should  say."  He 
pointed  to  one  of  the  youngest-looking  of  the  monitors, 
who  would  also  have  been  the  most  striking  in  personal 
appearance  had  not  the  almost  hectic  rose-color  of  his 
cheeks,  and  the  quiet  shining  of  his  blue  eyes,  under 
the  soft  hair  that  hung  over  his  forehead,  given  a  look 
of  greater  delicacy  than  was  desirable  in  a  boyish  face. 

"Wrong,  wrong,  wrong!"  chuckled  Walter  and  his 
sister.     "Try  again." 

"  I'm  very  rarely  wrong,  you  little  rogue,  in  spite 
of  you ;  but  I'll  look  again.  No,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  about  it.  Several  of  those  faces  show  talent, 
but  one  only  has  a  look  of  genius,  and  that  is  the  face 
of  the  boy  I  pointed  out  before.     What  is  his  nameV" 

"  Oh,  that's  Home.     He's  clever  enough  in  his  way ; 


12  BRUCE  AND  JULIAN  HOME. 

but  the  fellow  you  ought  to  have  picked  out  is  the  mom 
tor  I  fas:  for — Bruce,  the  head  of  the  school." 

"Well,  show  me  your  hero." 

"  There  he  sits,  right  in  the  middle  of  them,  opposite 
us.    There,  that's  he  just  going  to  speak  now." 

He  pointed  to  a  tall,  handsome  fellow,  with  a  lock  cf 
infinite  self-confidence,  who  at  that  moment  made  a  low 
bow  to  the  assembly,  and  then  began  to  recite  with  much 
force  a  splendid  burst  of  oratory  from  one  of  Burke's 
great  speeches ;  which  he  did  with  the  air  of  one  who 
had  no  doubt  that  Burke  himself  might  have  studied 
with  benefit  the  scorn  which  he  flung  into  his  invective, 
and  the  Olympian  grace  with  which  he  waved  his  arm. 
A  burst  of  applause  followed  the  conclusion  of  his  reci- 
tation, during  which  Bruce  took  his  seat  with  a  look  of 
unconcealed  delight  and  triumph. 

"There,  papa — what  do  you  think  of  that?  Wasn't 
I  right  now?"  said  the  young  Hartonian,  whose  name 
was  Walter  Thornley. 

But  the  old  gentleman's  only  answer  was  a  quiet 
smile,  and  he  had  not  joined  in  the  general  clapping. 

"Is  Home  to  take  any  part  in  the  speeches?"  he 
inquired. 

"  0  yes !  he's  got  some  part  or  other  in  one  of  the 
Shakspeare  scenes ;  but  he  won't  do  it  half  as  well  as 
Bruce." 

"I  observe  he's  got  several  of  the  prizes." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  He's  a  fellow  that  grinds,  you 
know,  and  so  he  can't  help  getting  some.  But  Bruce, 
now,  never  opens  a  book,  and  yet  he's  swept  off  no  end 
of  a  lot,  as  you'll  see." 

"Humph!    Walter,  I  don't  much  believe  in  your 


( 


A    RECITATION.  18 

boys  that  'never  open  a  book,'  and,  as  far  as  I  can  ob- 
serve, the  phrase  must  be  taken  with  very  considerable 
latitude;  I  still  believe  that  the  boy  who  'grinds,'  aa 
you  call  it,  is  the  abler  boy  of  the  two." 

"Yes,  Walter,"  said  his  brother,  an  old  Hartonian, 
"whenever  a  fellow,  who  has  got  a  prize,  tells  you  he 
won  it  without  opening  a  book,  set  him  down  as  a  shal- 
low puppy,  and  don't  believe  him." 

By  this  time  four  of  the  monitors  were  standing  up 
to  recite  a  scene  from  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  and 
Home  among  them ;  his  part  was  a  very  slight  one, 
and,  although  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in  his  way 
of  acting,  yet  he  had  evidently  studied  with  intelligence 
his  author's  meaning,  and  his  modest  self-possession 
attracted  favorable  regards.  But,  a  few  minutes  after, 
he  had  to  recite  alone  a  passage  of  Tennyson's  Morte 
d' Arthur,  and  then  he  appeared  to  greater  advantage. 
Standing  in  a  perfectly  natural  attitude,  he  began  in 
low  clear  tones,  enunciating  every  line  with  a  distinct- 
ness that  instantly  won  attention,  and  at  last  warming 
with  his  theme,  he  modulated  his  voice  with  the  require- 
ments of  the  verse,  and  used  gestures  so  graceful,  yet 
so  unaffected,  that  when  with  musical  emphasis  he  spoke 
the  last  lines, — 

"Long  stood  Sir  Belvidere 
Resolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawu, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away," 

he  seemed  entirely  absorbed  in  the  subject,  and  for 
half  a  minute  stood  as  if  unconscious,  until  the  deey 

2 


14  THE    HOMES. 

murmur  of  applause  startled  his  meditations,  and  he  Bat 
down  as  naturally  as  he  had  risen. 

"Well  done,  old  Home!"  said  Walter ;  while  Mr. 
Thornley  nodded  rapidly  two  or  three  times,  and  mur- 
mured after  him, — 

"And  on  the  mere  tlie  wailing  died  away," 


(I 


Really,  I  think  Julian  did  that  admirably,  did  he 
not  ?"  said  a  young  and  lovely  girl  to  her  mother,  aa 
Home  sat  down. 

"By  jingo!"  whispered  Walter,  "I  believe  theso 
people  just  by  us  are  Home's  people." 

"People!"  said  his  sister;  "what  do  you  mean  by 
his  people  ?" 

"Oh  7/ou  know,  Mary;  you  girls  are  always  sham- 
ming you  don't  understand  plain  English.  I  mean  his 
people." 

Mary  smiled,  and  looked  at  the  strangers.  "Yes, 
no  doubt  of  it,"  she  said;  "that  young  lady  has  just 
the  same  features  as  Mr.  Home,  only  softened  a  little ; 
more  refined  they  could  not  be.  And  they've  been 
hearing  all  your  rude  remarks,  Walter,  no  doubt." 

The  boy  was  right,  for  when  the  speeches  were  over, 
they  saw  Home  offer  his  arm  to  the  two  ladies  and  lead 
them  out  into  the  court-yard,  where  everybody  was 
waiting,  under  the  large  awning,  to  hear  the  lions  of 
the  day  cheered  as  they  came  down  the  school-steps, 
Bruce  was  leading  the  cheers ;  he  seemed  to  know 
everybody  and  everybody  to  know  him,  and  as  group 
after  group  passed  him,  he  was  bowing  and  smiling 
repeatedly  while  he  listened  to  the  congratulations 
which  were  lavished  upon  him  from  all  sides.     Among 


HARTON    CHURCH-YAKD.  16 

the  last  his  own  family  came  out,  and  when  he  gave 
his  arm  to  his  mother  and  descended  the  school-steps, 
one  of  the  other  monitors  suddenly  cried, — 

"Three  cheers  for  the  head  of  the  school." 

The  boys  cordially  echoed  the  cheers,  and,  taking 
oflf  his  hat,  Bruce  stood  still  with  a  flush  of  exultation 
on  his  handsome  face,  in  an  attitude  peculiar  to  him 
whenever  he  was  undergoing  an  ovation. 

"  Pose  plastique ;  King  Bruce  snuffing  up  the  in- 
cense of  flattery!"  muttered  a  school  Thersites,  stand- 
ing by 

"Green-minded  scoundrel,"  was  the  reply;  "that's 
because  he  beat  you  to  fits  in  the  Latin  verse." 

"How  very  popular  he  seems  to  be,  Julian!"  said 
Miss  Home  to  her  brother,  as  they  stood  rather  apart 
from  the  fashionable  crowd. 

"Very  popular,  and,  on  the  whole,  he  deserves  his 
popularity;  how  capitally  he  recited  to-day!"  and 
Julian  looked  at  him  and  sighed. 

"And  now,  mother,  will  you  come  to  lunch?"  he 
said;   "you're  invited  to  my  tutor's,  you  know." 

They  went  and  took  a  hasty  lunch,  heartily  enjoying 
•;he  simple  and  general  good  humor,  which  was  the 
order  of  the  day ;  and  finding  that  there  was  still  an 
hour  before  the  train  started  which  was  to  convey  them 
home,  Julian  took  them  up  to  the  old  church-yard,  and 
while  they  enjoyed  the  only  breath  of  air  Avhich  made 
the  tall  elms  murmur  in  the  burning  day,  he  showed 
them  the  beautiful  scene  spread  out  at  their  feet,  and 
the  distant  tow^ers  of  Elton  and  St.  George.  Field 
after  field,  filled  with  yellowing  harvests  or  grazing 
herds,  stretched  away  to  the  horizon,  and  nothing  on 


16  A    SIGH. 

earth  could  be  fairor  than  that  soft  sleep  of  the  golden 
sunshine  on  the  green  and  flowery  meadow-land;  while 
overhead  only  a  few  silvery  cloudlets  variegated  with 
their  fleecy  luster  the  expanse  of  blue,  rippling  down 
to  the  horizon  like  curves  of  white  foam  at  the  edges 
of  a  summer  sea. 

"No  AYonder  a  poet  loved  this  view,"  said  Mrs.  Home. 
"By-the-by,  Julian,  which  is  the  tomb  he  used  to  lie 
upon : 

"There!  just  behind  us;  that  one  with  the  frag- 
ments broken  off  by  stupid  picturesque  tourists,  with 
the  name  of  Peachev  on  it." 

"And  so  Byron  really  used,  as  a  boy,  to  rest  under 
these  elms,  and  look  at  this  lovely  view!"  said  hia 
sister. 

"Yes,  Violet.  I  wonder  how  much  he'd  have  given, 
in  after-life,  to  be  a  boy  again,"  said  Julian,  thought- 
fully; "and  have  a  fresh  start — a  rejuvenescence,  be- 
ginning after  a  summer  hour  spent  on  Peachey's  tomb !" 
and  Julian  sighed  again. 

"My  dear  Julian,"  said  Violet,  gayly  rallying  him, 
"what  a  boy  you  are!  What  business  have  you  to 
sigh  here  of  all  places,  and  now  of  all  times  ?  That's 
the  second  time  in  the  course  of  an  hour  that  I've 
heard  you.  Imagine  a  Harton  monitor  sighing  twice 
on  speech  day!     You  must  be  tired  of  us." 

"Did  I  sigh?  Abominably  rude  of  me.  I  really 
didn't  mean  it,"  said  Julian  ;  and,  shaking  off  the  influ- 
ences which  had  slightly  depressed  him  for  the  mo- 
ment, he  began  to  laugh  and  joke  with  the  utmost 
mirth  until  it  became  time  to  meet  the  train.  He  ac- 
companied his  mother  and  sister  to  the  station,  bade 


LILLYSTON.  17 

them  an  affectionate  farewell,  and  then  walked  slowlj 
back,  for  the  beauty  of  the  summer  evening  made  him 
loiter  on  the  way. 

"Poor  Julian!"  said  Violet  to  her  mother  when  the 
train  started;  "he  lets  the  sense  of  responsibility  weigh 
on  him  too  much,  I'm  afraid." 

But  Julian  was  thinking  that  the  next  time  he  came 
to  the  station  would  probably  be  at  the  end  of  term, 
when  his  school-boy  days  would  be  over.  He  leaned 
against  a  gate,  and  looked  long  at  the  green  quiet  hill, 
with  its  tall  spire  and  embosoming  trees,  till  he  fell 
into  a  reverie. 

A  slap  on  the  back  awoke  him,  and,  turning  round, 
he  saw  the  genial,  good-humored  face  of  one  of  hia 
fcliow-monitors,  Hugh  Lillyston. 

"Well,  Julian,  dreaming  as  usual — castle-building, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  eh?" 

"  No ;  I  was  thinking  how  soon  one  will  have  to  bid 
good-by  to  dear  old  Harton.  How  well  the  chapel 
looks  from  here,  doesn't  it  ? — and  the  church  towering 
above  it." 

"  The  chapel  being  like  a  fair  daughter  seated  at  her 
mother's  feet,  as  your  poetical  tutor  remarked  the 
other  day.  Well,  Julian,  I'm  glad  we  shall  leave  to- 
gether, anyhow.     Come  and  have  some  tea." 

Julian  went  to  his  friend's  room.  The  fag  brought 
the  tea  and  toast,  and  they  spent  a  merry  evening, 
chatting  over  the  speeches  and  the  way  in  which  the 
day  had  gone  off.  At  lock-up,  Julian  went  to  write 
some  letters,  and  then  feeling  the  melancholy  thought 
of  future  days  stealing  over  him,  he  plunged  into  a 
book  of  poems  till  it  was  bedtime,  being  disturbed  a 

2* 


18  PROSPECTS. 

good  deal,  however,  by  the  noisy  mirth  which  re- 
sounded, long  after  forbidden  hours,  from  Bruce's  study 
overhead.  Bruce  was  also  to  leave  Harton  in  a  month, 
and  they  were  going  up  together  to  St.  Werner's  Col- 
lege, Camford.  But  the  difference  was,  that  Bruce 
went  up  wealthy  and  popular;  Julian,  whose  retiring 
disposition  and  refined  tastes  won  him  far  fewer  though 
truer  friends,  was  going  up  as  a  sizar,  with  no  pros- 
pect of  remaining  at  the  university  unless  he  won  him- 
self the  means  of  doing  so  by  his  own  success.  It  was 
this  thought  that  had  made  him  sigh. 


CHAPTER    II. 

JULIAN    HOME. 

"0  thou  goddess. 
Thou  divine  Nature,  how  thyself  thou  Ijlazon'tt 
In  these  two  princely  boys ;  they  are  as  gentln 
As  zephyrs  blowing  beneath  the  violet, 
Not  wagging  his  sweet  head ;  and  yet  as  fierce 
Their  royal  blood  enchafed,  as  the  rud'st  wind 
That  by  the  top  doth  take  the  mountain  pine, 
And  makes  him  bow  to  the  vale." 

Cymbeline,  Act  iv.,  so  2. 

It  was  but  recently  (as  will  be  explained  hereafter) 
that  the  circumstances  had  arisen  which  had  rendered 
it  necessary  for  Julian  Home  to  enter  St.  Werner's  as 
a  sizar ;  and  since  that  necessity  had  arisen,  he  had 
been  far  from  happy.  A  peculiar  sensitiveness  had 
been  from  childhood  the  distinctive  feature  of  his  char- 
acter. It  rendered  him  doubly  amenable  to  everj? 
emotion  of  pleasure  and  pain,  and  gave  birth  to  a  self- 
conscious  spirit,  which  made  his  nature  appear  weaker, 
when  a  boy,  than  it  really  was.  While  he  was  at  Har- 
ton,  this  self-consciousness  made  him  keenly,  almost 
tremblingly,  alive  to  the  opinions  of  others  about  him- 
self. His  self-depreciation  arose  from  real  humility, 
and  there  was  in  his  heart  so  deep  a  fountain  of  love 
toward  all  his  fellows,  and  so  sympathizing  an  admira- 
tion of  all  their  good  or  brilliant  qualities,  that  he  was 

(19) 


20  ENEMIES. 

far  too  apt  to  suffer  himself  to  bo  tormented  by  tho  in- 
difference or  dislike  of  those  who  were  far  his  inferiors. 

It  was  strange  that  such  a  boy  should  have  had 
enemies,  but  he  was  sadly  aware  that  in  that  light  some 
regarded  him.  Had  it  been  possible  to  conciliate  them 
without  any  compromise  in  his  line  of  action,  he  would 
have  done  so  at  any  cost;  but  as  their  enmity  arose 
from  that  vehement  moral  indignation  which  Julian 
both  felt  and  expressed  against  the  iniquities  which  he 
despised  and  disapproved,  he  knew  that  all  union  with 
them  was  out  of  his  power  As  a  general  rule,  the 
best  boys  are  by  no  means  the  most  popular. 

It  was  the  great  delight  of  Julian's  detractors  to 
compare  him  unfavorably  with  their  hero,  Bruce. 
Bruce,  as  a  fair  scholar  and  a  good  cricketer,  with  no 
very  marked  line  of  his  own — as  a  fine-looking  fellow, 
anxious  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  everybody,  and 
with  an  apparently  hearty  "well  met"  for  all  the 
world — cut  against  the  grain  of  no  one's  predilections, 
and  had  the  voice  of  popular  favor  always  on  his  side. 
While  ambition  made  him  work  tolerably  hard,  as  far 
as  he  could  do  so  without  attracting  observation,  the 
line  he  took  was  to  disparage  industry,  and  ally  himself 
with  the  merely  cricketing  set,  with  some  of  whom  he 
might  be  seen  strolling  arm-in-arm,  in  loud  conversa- 
tion, at  every  possible  opportunity.  Julian,  on  the 
other  hand,  though  a  fair  cricketer,  soon  grew  weary 
of  the  "shop"  about  that  game,  which  for  three  months 
formed  the  main  staple  of  conversation  among  the 
boys ;  and  while  his  countenance  was  too  expressive  to 
conceal  this  fact,  he  in  his  turn  found  himself  unable 
to  enlist  more  than  a  few  in  any  interest  for  those  in 


BROGTEN.  21 

tellectual  pursuits  which  were  the  chief  joy  of  his  own 
life. 

"Home,  I've  been  watching  you  for  the  last  half- 
hour,"  said  Bruce,  one  day  at  dinner,  "and  you 
haven't  opened  your  lips." 

"I've  had  nothing  to  say." 

''Why  not?" 

"Because,  since  we  came  in,  not  one  word  has  been 
said  about  any  human  subject  but  cricket,  cricket, 
cricket;  it's  been  the  same  for  the  last  two  months; 
and  as  I  haven't  been  playing  this  morning " 

"Well,  no  one  wants  you  to  talk,"  interrupted  Brog- 
ten,  one  of  the  eleven,  Julian's  especial  foe.  "I  say, 
Bruce,  did  you  see " 

"I  was  only  going  to  add,"  said  Julian,  with  perfect 
good  humor,  heedless  of  the  interruption,  "that  I 
couldn't  discuss  a  game  I  didn't  see." 

"Nobody  asked  you,  sir,"  retorted  Brogten,  rudely ; 
"if  it  had  been  some  sentimental  humbug,  I  dare  say 
you'd  have  moaned  about  it  long  enough." 

"Better,  at  any  rate,  than  some  of  your  low  stories, 
Brogten,"  said  Lillyston,  firing  up  on  his  friend's  be- 
half. 

"I  don't  know.     I  like  something  manly." 

"Vice  and  manliness  being  identical,  then,  accord- 
ing to  your  notions?"  said  Lillyston. 

Brogten  muttered  an  angry  reply,  in  which  the  only 
audible  words  were  "confound"  and  "milksops." 

"Well  spoken,  advocate  of  sin  and  shame: 
Known  by  tliy  bleating,  Ignorance  thy  name," 

f.houscht  Julian;  but  he  did  not  condescend  to  make 
any  further  answer. 


22  SENSITIVENESS. 

"I  hate  that  kind  of  fellow,"  said  Brogten,  loud 
eiiouf];h  for  the  friends  to  hear,  as  they  rose  from  the 
table;  "fellows  Avho  think  themselves  everybody's 
superiors,  and  walk  with  their  noses  in  the  air." 

'"I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Brogten; 
nobody  marks  you,"  said  Lilly ston,  treating  with  the 
profoundest  indiiference  a  stupid  calumny.  But  poisoned 
arrows  like  these  quivered  long  and  rankled  painfully 
in  Julian's  heart. 

Yet  no  sensible  boy  would  have  given  Julian's  repu- 
tation in  exchange  for  that  of  Bruce ;  for  in  all  except 
the  mean  and  coarse  minority,  Julian  excited  either 
affection  or  esteem,  and  he  had  the  rare  inestimable 
treasure  of  some  real  and  noble-hearted  friends;  while 
Bruce  was  too  vain,  too  shallow,  and  too  fickle  to  in- 
spire any  higher  feeling  than  a  mere  transient  admira- 
tion. 

Latterly  it  had  become  known  to  the  boys  that 
Julian  was  going  up  to  St.  Werner's  as  a  sizar,  and 
being  ignorant  of  the  reasons  which  decided  him,  they 
had  been  much  surprised.  But  the  little  clique  of  his 
enemies  made  this  an  additional  subject  of  annoyance, 
and  there  were  not  wanting  those  who  had  the  amazing 
bad  taste  to  repeat  to  him  some  of  their  speeches. 
There  are  some  who  seem  to  think  that  a  man  must 
rather  enjoy  hearing  all  the  low  tittle-tattle  of  envious 
backbiters. 

"I  knew  he  must  be  some  tailor's  son  or  other," 
remarked  Brogten. 

"I  say,  Bruce,  we  shall  have  to  cut  him  at  St.  Wer- 
ner's," observed  an  exquisite  young  exclusive. 

Such  things — the  mere  lispings  of  malicious  folly — 


MR.  GARDEN  28 

Julian  could  not  help  hearing ;  and  they  galled  him  so 
much  that  he  determined  to  have  a  talk  on  the  subject 
with  his  tuto.',  who  was  a  St.  Werner's  man.  It  was 
his  tutor's  custom  to  devote  the  hour  before  lock-up  on 
every  half-holiday  to  seeing  any  of  his  pupils  who  cared 
to  come  and  visit  him;  but  as  on  the  rich  summer 
evenings  few  were  to  be  tempted  from  the  joyous 
sounds  of  the  cricket-field,  Julian  found  him  sitting 
alone  in  his  study  reading. 

"Ha,  Julian!"  he  exclaimed,  rising  at  once,  with  a 
frank  and  cordial  greeting.  "Here's  a  triumph!  A 
boy  actually  enticed  from  bats  and  balls  to  pay  me  a 
visit!" 

Julian  smiled.  "The  fact  is,  sir,"  he  said,  "I've 
come  to  ask  you  about  something.  But  am  I  disturb- 
ing you?  If  so,  I'll  go  and  'pursue  vagrant  pieces  of 
leather  again,'  as  Mr.  Stokes  says  when  he  wants  to 
dismiss  us  to  cricket." 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  rather  enjoy  being  disturbed 
during  this  hour.  But  what  do  you  say  to  a  turn  in 
the  open  air?  One  can  talk  so  much  better  walking 
than  sitting  down  on  opposite  sides  of  a  fire-place  with 
no  fire  in  it." 

Julian  readily  assented,  and  Mr.  Garden  took  his 
arm  as  they  bent  their  way  down  to  the  cricket-field. 
There  they  stopped  involuntarily  for  a  time,  to  gaze  at 
the  house-match  which  was  going  on,  and  the  master 
entered  with  the  utmost  vivacity  into  the  keen  yet 
harmless  "chaff"  which  was  being  interchanged  be- 
tween the  partisans  of  the  rival  houses. 

"What  a  charming  place  this  field  is,"  he  said,  "on 
6  summer  evening,  while  the  sunset  lets  fall  upon  it  the 


24  THE    CRICKET-FIELD. 

last  innocuous  arrows  of  its  golden  sheaf!  When  I  air 
wearied  to  death  with  work  or  vexation — which,  alas! 
is  too  often — I  always  run  down  here,  and  it  gives  mc 
a  fresh  lease  of  life." 

Julian  smiled  at  his  tutor's  metaphorical  style  of 
speech,  which  he  knew  was  in  him  the  natural  expres- 
sions of  a  glowing  and  poetic  heart,  that  saw  no  reason 
to  be  ashamed  of  its  own  warm  feelings  and  changeful 
fancies ;  and  Mr.  Garden,  wrapped  in  the  scene  before 
him,  and  the  sensations  it  excited,  murmured  to  him- 
self some  of  his  favorite  lines : — 

"Alas !  that  one 
Should  use  the  days  of  summer  but  to  live 
And  breathe  but  as  the  needful  element 
The  strange  superfluous  glory  of  the  air 
Nor  rather  stand  in  awe  apart,  beside 
The  untouched  time,  and  murmuring  o'er  and  o'er, 
In  awe  and  wonder,  '  These  .are  summer  days  1' " 

"Shall  we  stroll  across  the  fields,  sir,  before  lock- 
up?" said  Julian,  as  a  triumphant  shout  proclaimed 
that  the  game  was  over,  and  the  Parkites  had  defeated 
the  Grovians. 

"Yes,  do.  By-the-by,  what  was  it  that  you  had  to 
ask  me  about  ?" 

"Oh,  sir,  I  don't  think  I've  told  you  before;  but  I'm 
going  up  to  St.  Werner's  as  a  sub-sizar." 

Mr.  Garden  looked  surprised.  "  Indeed  !  Is  that 
necessary?" 

"Yes,  sir;  it's  a  choice  between  that  and  not  going 
at  all.  And  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you  was,  whether 
it  will  subject  me  to  much  annoyance  or  contempt; 
because,  if  so " 


SIZARS.  26 

^^Contempf,  my  dear  fellow!"  said  Mr.  Garden, 
quickly.  "Yes,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "the  con- 
tempt of  the  contemptible — certainly  of  no  one  else." 

"But  do  you  think  that  any  Harton  fellows  will  cut 
me?" 

"Unquestionably  not;  at  least,  if  any  of  them  do, 
it  will  be  such  a  proof  of  their  own  absolute  worthless- 
ness,  that  you  will  be  well  rid  of  such  acquaintances." 

Julian  seemed  but  little  reassured  by  this  summary 
way  of  viewing  the  matter. 

"But  I  hope,"  he  said,  "that  no  one  (even  if  they 
don't  cut  me)  will  regard  my  society  as  a  matter  of 
mere  tolerance,  or  try  an  air  of  condescension." 

"Look  here,  Julian,"  said  the  master;  "a  sub-sizar 
means  merely  a  poor  scholar,  for  whom  the  college  has 
set  apart  certain  means  of  assistance.  From  this  body 
have  come  some  of  the  most  distinguished  men  whom 
St.  Werner's  has  ever  produced;  and  many  of  the  Fel- 
lows (indeed  quite  a  disproportionate  number)  began 
their  college  career  in  this  manner.  Now  tell  me — 
should  you  care  the  snap  of  a  finger  for  the  opinion  or 
the  acquaintance  of  a  man  who  could  be  such  an  inef- 
fable fool  as  to  drop  intercourse  with  you  because  you 
are  merely  less  rich  than  he?  Don't  you  remember 
those  grand  old  words,  Julian : — 

" '  Lives  there  for  honest  poverty, 

Who  hangs  his  head  and  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave  we  pass  him  by, 
And  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that.'" 

"And  yet,  sir,  half  the  distinctions  of  modern  societj 
rest  upon  accidents  of  this  kind." 

3 


26  VIRTUS    VERA    NOBILITAS. 

"True,  true!  quite  true;  but  what  is  the  use  3f 
education  if  it  docs  not  teach  us  to  look  on  raan  as 
man,  and  judge  by  a  nobler  and  more  real  standard 
than  the  superficial  distinctions  of  society?  But  answer 
my  question." 

"Well,  sir,  I  confess  that  I  should  think  very  lightly 
of  the  man  who  treated  me  in  that  way ;  still  I  should 
be  annoyed  very  much  by  his  conduct." 

"I  really  think,  Julian,"  replied  Mr.  Garden,  "that 
the  necessity  which  compels  you  to  go  up  as  a  sizar 
will  be  good  for  you  in  many  ways.  Poverty,  self- 
denial,  the  bearing  of  the  yoke  in  youth,  are  the  high- 
est forms  of  discipline  for  a  brave  and  godly  manhood. 
The  hero  and  the  prophet  are  rarely  found  in  soft 
clothing  or  kingly  houses;  they  are  never  chosen  from 
the  palaces  of  Mammon  or  the  gardens  of  Belial." 

They  talked  a  little  longer  on  the  subject,  and  Mr. 
Garden  pointed  out  how,  at  the  universities  more  than 
anywhere,  the  aristocracy  of  intellect  and  character  are 
almost  solely  recognized,  and  those  patents  of  nobility 
honored  which  come  direct  from  God.  "After  a  single 
term,  Julian,  depend  upon  it,  you  will  smile  at  the  sen- 
sitiveness which  now  makes  you  shrink  from  entering 
on  this  position.  At  least,  I  assume  that  even  by  that 
time  your  name  will  be  honorably  known,  as  it  will  be 
if  you  work  hard.  You  must  never  forget  that  '  Virtus 
vera  nobilitas'  is  the  noble  motto  of  your  own  college." 

"Well,  I  ^vill  work  at  any  rate,"  said  Julian;  "in- 
deed I  must." 

"But  may  I  ask  why  you  have  determined  on  going 
up  as  sizar?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sir.    I  am  far  too  grateful  for  all  your  many 


SYMPATHY.  '    27 

kindnesses  to  me,  not  to  tell  you  freely  of  my  circum- 
Btances." 

And  so,  as  they  walked  on  that  beautiful  summer 
evening  over  the  green  fields,  Julian,  happy  in  tho 
quiet  sympathizing  attention  of  one  who  was  not  only 
a  master,  but  a  true,  earnest,  and  affectionate  friend, 
told  him  some  of  the  facts,  to  which  we  shall  allude  in 
P  tho  retrcspsct  of  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A   RETROSPECT. 

"(Jive  me  the  man  that  is  not  Passion's  stave, 
And  I  will  wear  him  in  my  own  heart's  core, 
Yea,  in  my  heart  of  hearts." — Shaksfeare. 

Julian's  father  was  rector  of  Ildown,  a  beautiful 
village  on  the  Devonshire  coast.  As  younger  son,  his 
private  means  were  very  small,  and  the  more  so  as  hia 
family  had  lost  in  various  unfortunate  speculations  a 
large  portion  of  the  wealth  which  had  once  been  the 
inheritance  of  his  ancient  and  honorable  house.  Mr. 
Home  regretted  this  but  little ;  contentment  of  mind 
and  simplicity  of  tastes  were  to  him  a  far  deeper  source 
of  happiness  than  the  advantages  of  fortune.  Imme- 
diately after  his  university  career  he  had  taken  holy 
orders,  and  devoted  to  the  genial  duties  of  his  profes- 
sion all  the  energies  of  a  vigorous  intellect  and  a  gen- 
erous heart. 

During  his  first  curacy  he  was  happy  enough  to  be 
placed  in  the  diocese  of  a  bishop  whose  least  merit  was 
the  rare  conscientiousness  with  which  he  distributed 
the  patronage  at  his  disposal.  Whenever  a  living  was 
vacant,  the  Bishop  of  Elford  used  deliberately  to  pass 
in  mental  review  all  the  clergy  under  his  jurisdiction, 
and  single  out  from  among  them  the  ablest  and  the 
(28) 


MR.  HOME.  29 

best.  He  was  never  influenced  by  the  spirit  of  nepo- 
tism ;  he  was  never  deceived  by  shallow  declaimers  or 
ignorant  bigots,  who  had  thrust  themselves  into  the 
notoriety  of  a  noisy  and  orthodox  reputation.  The 
ordinary  Honorable  and  Reverend,  whose  only  distinc- 
tion was  his  title  or  his  wealth,  had  to  look  for  prefer- 
ment elsewhere ;  but  often  would  some  curate,  haply 
sighing  at  the  thought  that  obscurity  and  poverty  were 
his  lot  for  this  life,  and  meekly  bearing  both  for  the 
honor  of  his  Master's  work,  be  made  deservedly  happy 
by  at  last  attaining  the  rewards  he  had  never  sought. 
Few,  indeed,  were  the  dioceses  in  which  the  clergy 
worked  in  a  more  hopeful  spirit,  in  the  certainty  that 
the  good  bishop  never  sufiered  merit  to  pass  unrecog- 
nized ;  and  for  talent  and  industry,  no  body  of  rectors 
could  be  compared  to  those  whom  Bishop  Morris  had 
chosen  from  the  most  deserving  of  the  curates  who 
were  under  his  pastoral  care. 

Mr.  Home,  after  five  years'  hard  work,  had  been 
promoted  by  the  bishop  to  a  small  living,  where  he 
soon  succeeded  in  winning  the  warmest  affection  of  all 
his  parishioners,  and  among  others,  of  his  squire  and 
churchwarden,  the  Earl  of  Raynes,  who,  from  a  feeling 
of  sincere  gratitude,  procured  for  him,  on  the  first 
opportunity,  the  rectory  of  Hdown. 

Here,  at  the  a.ge  of  thirty,  he  settled  down,  with 
every  intention  of  making  it  his  home  for  life;  and 
here  he  shortly  after  wooed  and  won  the  daughter  of 
a  neighboring  clergyman,  whose  only  dower  was  the 
beauty  of  a  countenance  which  but  dimly  reflected  the 
inner  beauty  of  her  heart. 

Very  tranqifil  was  their  wedded  life;  very  perfect 


50  WEDDED    LIFE. 

was  the  peacefulness  of  their  home.  Under  her  hands 
the  rectory  garden  became  a  many-colored  Eden,  and 
the  eye  could  rest  delightedly  on  its  lawns  and  flower- 
beds, even  amid  that  glorious  environment  of  woods 
and  cliffs,  free  moors  and  open  sea,  which  gave  to  the 
vicinity  of  Ildown  such  a  nameless  charm.  Eut  the 
beauty  without  was  surpassed  by  the  rarer  sunshine  of 
the  life  within ;  and  when  children  were  born  to  them 
— when  little  steps  began  to  patter  along  the  hall,  and 
young  faces  to  shine  beside  the  fire,  and  little  strains 
of  silvery  laughter  to  ring  through  every  room — there 
was  a  happiness  in  that  bright  family,  for  the  sake  of 
which  an  emperor  might  have  been  content  to  abdicate 
his  throne.  Oh  that  the  river  of  human  life  could  flow 
on  forever  with  such  sparkling  waters,  and  its  margin 
be  embroidered  forever  with  flowers  like  these! 

Julian  was  their  eldest  son,  and  it  added  to  the 
intensity  of  each  parent's  love  for  him  to  find  that  he 
seemed  to  have  inherited  the  best  qualities  of  them 
both.  Their  next  child  was  Violet,  and  then,  after 
two  years'  interval,  came  Cyril  and  Frank.  The  four 
children  were  educated  at  home,  without  even  tke 
assistance  of  tutor  or  governess,  until  Julian  was  thir- 
teen years  old;  and  during  all  that  time  scarcely  one 
domestic  sorrow  occurred  to  checker  the  unclouded 
serenity  of  their  peace.  Even  without  the  esteem  and 
respect  of  all  their  neighbors,  rich  and  poor,  the  love 
of  parents  and  children,  brothers  and  sister,  was  enough 
for  each  heart  there. 

But  the  day  of  separation  must  come  at  last,  how- 
ever long  we  may  delay  it,  and  after  Julian's  tnirtecntti 
birthday  it  was  decided  that  he  must  g6  to  school.     In 


SCHOOLS.  31 

making  th.s  determination,  Lis  father  knew  Avluit  he 
was  about.  He  knew  that  in  sending  his  son  among  a 
multitude  of  boys  he  was  exposing  him  to  a  world  of 
temptation,  and  placing  him  amid  many  dangers.  Yet 
he  never  hesitated  about  it,  and  when  his  wife  spoke 
with  trembling  anxiety  of  the  things  which  she  had 
heard  and  read  about  school- life,  he  calmly  replied  that 
without  danger  there  can  be  no  courage,  and  without 
temptation  no  real  virtue  or  tried  strength. 

"Poor  Julian  I"  said  Mrs.  Home,  "but  won't  he  be 
bullied  dreadfully?" 

"No,  dear;  the  days  of  those  atrocities  about  which 
you  read  in  books  are  done  by  forever.  At  no  respect- 
able school,  except  under  very  rare  and  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances, are  boys  exposed  to  any  worse  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  cruelty  than  they  can  very  easily  prevent 
or  overcome." 

"But,  then,  those  dreadful  moral  temptations!" 
pleaded  the  mother. 

"They  are  very  serious,  love.  But  is  it  not  better 
that  our  boy  should  learn,  by  their  means,  (as  thou- 
sands do,)  to  substitute  the  manliness  of  self-restraint 
for  the  innocence  of  ignorance — even  on  the  very  false 
supposition  that  such  an  innocence  can  be  preserved? 
And  remember,  that  he  does  not  escape  these  tempta- 
tions by  avoiding  them ;  from  the  little  I  have  seen,  it 
is  my  sincere  conviction  that  for  after-life — even  in  this 
aspect  alone,  without  alluding  to  the  innumerable  other 
arguments  which  must  be  considered — the  education 
of  a  public  school  is  a  far  sounder  preparation  than  the 
Bnelter  of  home.  I  cannot  persuade  our  neighbor.' 
Mrs.  Hazlet  of  this,  but  I  should  tremble  to  bring  up 


82  TEMPTATION. 

Julian  with  no  wider  experience  than  she  allows  to  her 
boj." 

So  Julian  went  to  Harton,  and,  after  a  time, 
thoroughly  enjoyed  his  life  there,  and  was  unharme>J 
by  the  trials  which  must  come  to  every  school-boy;  so 
that  when  he  came  back  for  his  first  holidays,  the 
mother  saw  with  joy  and  pride  that  her  jewel  was  not 
flawed,  and  remained  undimmed  in  luster.  Who  knows 
how  much  had  been  contributed  to  that  glad  result  by 
the  daily  and  nightly  prayer  which  ever  ascended  for 
him  from  his  parents'  lips,  "  Lead  him  not  into  tempta- 
tion, but  deliver  him  from  evil"? 

For  Avhen  he  first  went  to  school,  Julian  was  all  the 
more  dangerously  circumstanced,  from  the  fact  that  he 
was  an  attractive  and  engaging  boy.  With  his  bright 
eyes,  beaming  with  innocence  and  trustfulness,  the 
healthy  glow  of  his  clear  and  ingenuous  countenance, 
and  the  noble  look  and  manners  which  were  the  fruit 
of  a  noble  mind,  he  could  never  be  one  of  those  who 
pass  unknown  and  unnoticed  in  the  common  throng. 
And  since  to  these  advantages  of  personal  appearance 
he  superadded  a  quick  intelligence,  and  no  little  ac- 
tivity and  liveliness,  he  was  sure  to  meet  with  flattery 
and  observation.  But  there  was  something  in  Julian's 
nature  which,  by  God's  grace,  seemed  to  secure  him 
from  evil,  as  though  he  were  surrounded  by  an  atmo- 
sphere impermeable  to  base  and  wicked  hearts.  lie 
passed  through  school  life  not  only  unscathed  by,  but 
almost  ignorant  of,  the  sins  into  which  others  fell;  and 
«he  account  which  his  contemporaries  might  have  given 
of  their  school-boy  days  was  widely  different  from  hia 
own.     He  was  one  of  those  of  whom  the  grace  of  God 


FLIES.  Jib 

took  early  hold,  and  in  whom  "reason  and  religion  ran 
together  like  warp  and  woof,"  to  form  the  web  of  a 
wise  and  holy  life.     Such  happy  natures,  such  excel 
ent   hearts  there   are,   though  they  are   few  and   far 
between. 

To  Hugh  Lillyston  Julian  owed  no  little  of  his  haj)- 
piness.  Tbey  had  been  in  the  same  forms  together 
since  Julian  came,  and  the  friendship  between  them 
was  never  broken.  When  Lillyston  first  saw  the  new 
boy,  he  longed  to  speak  to  him  at  once,  but  respected 
him  too  much  to  thrust  himself  rudely  into  his  acquaint- 
ance. During  the  first  day  or  two  they  exchanged 
only  a  few  shy  words;  for  Julian,  too,  was  pleased  and 
taken  with  Lillyston's  manly,  honest  look.  But  both 
had  wisely  determined  to  let  their  knowledge  of  each 
other  grow  up  naturally  and  gradually,  without  any 
first-sight  vows  of  eternal  friendship,  generally  destined 
to  be  broken  in  the  following  week. 

Lillyston  had  observed,  not  without  disgust,  that  two 
thoroughly  bad  fellows  were  beginning  to  notice  the 
new-comer,  and  determined  at  all  hazards  to  tell  Julian 
his  opinion  of  them.  So  one  day,  as  they  left  the 
school-room  together,  he  said, — 

"Do  you  know  Brant  and  Jeffrey?" 

"Yes,  a  little,"  answered  Julian. 

"Did  you  know  them  before  you  came,  or  anything?" 

"  No ;  but  they  will  wait  for  me  every  now  and  then 
at  the  door  of  the  fourth-form  room  when  I'm  coming 
out;  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  them,  but  one  doesn't 
wish  to  seem  uncivil,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  get  rid 
of  them." 

"  Hem !  well,  I  wouldn't  see  too  much  of  them  if  I 
were  you." 


34  NOBLE    FRIENDSHIP. 

"No  V  but  why?" 

"Well,  never  mind — only  I  thought  I'd  tell  you;" 
and  Lillyston,  half  ashamed  at  having  taken  this  step, 
and  half  afraid  that  Julian  might  misconstrue  it,  ran 
away.  Julian,  who  was  little  pleased  with  the  coarse 
adulation  of  Brant  and  Jeffrey,  took  his  friend's  advice, 
and  from  that  time  he  and  Lillyston  became  more  and 
more  closely  united.  They  were  constantly  together. 
and  never  tired  of  each  other's  society;  and  at  last, 
when  their  tutor,  observing  and  thoroughly  approving 
of  the  friendship,  put  them  both  in  the  same  room,  the 
school  began  in  fun  to  call  them  Achilles  and  Patro- 
clus,  Damon  and  Pythias,  Orestes  and  Pylades,  David 
and  Jonathan,  Theseus  and  Pirithous,  and  as  many 
other  names  ofparia  amicorum  as  they  could  remember. 

Yet  there  was  many  a  Harton  boy  who  would  have 
said,  "  Utinam  in  tali  amicitia  tertius  ascriberer !" 
for  each  friend  communicated  to  the  other  something 
at  least  of  his  own  excellencies.  Lillyston  instructed 
Julian  in  the  mysteries  of  fives,  rackets,  football,  and 
cricket,  until  he  became  an  adept  at  them  all;  and 
Julian,  in  return,  gave  Lillyston  very  efficient  help  in 
work,  and  inspired  him  with  intellectual  tastes  for 
which  he  felt  no  little  gratitude  in  after-days.  The 
desire  of  getting  his  remove  with  Julian  worked  so 
much  with  him  that  he  began  to  rise  many  places  in 
the  examinations ;  and  while  Julian  was  generally 
among  the  first  few,  Lillyston  managed  to  be  placed, 
at  any  rate,  far  above  the  ranks  of  the  undistinguished 
herd. 

So,  form  by  form,  Lillyston  and  Julian  Home 
mounted  up  the  school  side  by  side,  and  illustrated  the 


A    TELEGRAM.  35 

noblest  and  holiest  uses  of  friendship  by  adding  to  each 
other's  happiness  and  advantai^e  in  every  way.  I  ara 
glad  to  dwell  on  such  a  picture,  knowing,  0  holy  Friend- 
ehip,  how  awfully  a  school-boy  can  sometimes  desecrate 
cby  name! 

Three  years  had  passed,  and  they  were  now  no  longer 
little  boys,  but  in  the  upper  fifth  form  together,  and 
Julian  was  in  his  sixteenth  year.  It  was  one  March 
morning,  when,  shortly  after  they  entered  the  school- 
room, the  school  "Gustos"  came  in  and  handed  to  the 
master  a  letter — 

"  It's  for  Mister  Home,  sir,  by  telegraph." 

The  master  called  Julian,  (whose  heart  beat  quick 
when  he  heard  his  name,)  and  said  to  him, — • 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  take  it  out  of  the  room, 
Home,  before  you  read  it,  as  it  may  contain  something 
important." 

With  a  grateful  look  for  this  considerate  kindness, 
Julian  took  the  hint,  and,  leaving  the  room,  tore  open 
the  message,  which  was  from  his  mother: — 

"Dear  Julian — Come  home  instantly ;  your  father 
is  most  dangerously  ill.     I  cannot  add  more." 

The  boys  heard  a  cry,  and  the  master  made  a  sign 
to  Lillyston,  who  had  already  started  to  his  feet. 
Springing  out  of  the  unclosed  door,  he  found  Juliau 
half  fainting ;  for  his  home  affections  were  the  very 
mainsprings  of  his  life.  He  read  the  message,  helped 
Julian  down  stairs,  flung  a  little  cold  water  over  his  face, 
and  then  led  him  to  their  own  study,  where  he  imme- 


36  IN    THE    TRAIN. 

(liately  began,  without  a  -word,  to  pack  up  for  him  such 
things  as  he  thought  he  would  require. 

Lillyston  made  all  the  necessary  arrangements,  and 
did  not  leave  his  friend  until  he  had  seen  him  into  the 
railway  carriage,  and  pressed  his  hand  Avith  a  silent 
farewell.     He  watched  the  train  till  it  w^as  out  of  sights 

Then  first  did  Julian's  anguish  find  vent  in  tears. 
Passionately  he  longed  at  least  to  know  the  worst,  and 
would  have  given  anything  to  speed  the  progress  of  the 
train,  far  too  slow  for  his  impatient  misery.  He  was 
tormented  by  remembering  the  unusually  solemn  look 
and  tone  with  which  his  father  had  parted  from  him  a 
month  before,  and  by  the  presentiment  which  at  that 
moment  had  flashed  across  him  with  uncontrollable 
vividness,  that  they  should  never  meet  again.  At  last 
they  reached  II down,  late  in  the  evening,  just  as  the 
flushed  glare  of  crimson  told  the  death-struggle  of 
an  angry  sunset  with  the  dull  and  heavy  clouds.  The 
station  was  a  mile  from  the  town,  and  it  was  a  raw, 
gusty,  foggy  evening.  There  was  no  conveyance  at 
the  station,  but  leaving  with  the  porter  a  hasty  direc- 
tion about  his  luggage,  Julian  flew  along  the  road  heed- 
less of  observation,  reached  the  cliff",  and  at  length 
stood  before  the  rectory  door.  He  was  wet,  hungry, 
and  exhausted,  for  since  morning  he  had  tasted  nothing, 
and  his  run  had  spattered  him  with  mud  from  head  to 
heel.  It  was  too  dark  to  judge  what  had  happened 
from  the  appearance  of  the  house,  and  half  frantic  as 
be  was  with  fear  and  eagerness,  he  had  yet  not  dared 
to  give  a  loud  summons  at  the  door,  lest  he  should  dis- 
tur'(>  his  father's  slumber  or  excite  his  nerves. 


TOO    LATE.  37 

Ah!  Julian,  you  need  not  restrain  your  impetuous 
iread  from  that  cause  now. 

The  door  opened  very  quietly,  and  in  reply  to 
Julian's  incoherent  question,  the  good  old  servant  only 
shook  her  head,  and  turned  away  to  brush  off  with  her 
apron  the  tears  which  she  vainly  struggled  to  repress. 
iJut  the  boy  burst  into  the  study  where  he  knew  that 
the  rest  would  be,  and  in  another  moment  his  arm  was 
round  his  mother's  neck,  while  Cyril  and  Violet  and 
little  Frank  drew  close  and  wept  silently  beside  them 
both.  But  still  Julian  knew  not  or  would  not  know 
the  full  truth,  and  at  last  he  drew  up  courage  to  ask 
the  question  which  had  been  so  long  trembling  on  his 
lips,— 

"Is  there  7io  hope,  mother — no  hope?" 

"  Don't  you  know,  then,  my  boy?   Your  father  is — " 

"Not  dead!"  said  Julian,  in  a  hollow  voice;  "oh 
mother,  mother,  mother!" 

His  head  drooped  on  her  shoulder ;  the  news  fell  on 
him  like  a  horrible  blow,  and,  stunned  as  he  was  with 
weariness  and  anxiety,  all  sense  and  life  flowed  from 
him  for  a  time. 

The  necessity  for  action,  and  the  consolation  of 
others,  are  God's  blessed  remedies  to  lull,  during  the 
first  intolerable  moments,  the  poignancy  of  bereave- 
ment. Mrs.  Home  had  to  soothe  her  children,  and  to 
see  that  they  took  needful  food  and  rest ;  and  she 
watched  by  the  bedside  of  her  younger  boys  till  the 
silken  swathe  of  a  soft  boyish  sleep  fell  on  their  eyes, 
red  and  swollen  with  many  tears.  Then  she  saw 
Violet   to  bed,  and  at  last   sat   down  alone  with  hei 

4 


429336 


38  A    DYING    MESSAGE. 

eldest  son,  who,  by  a   great   prayerful   effort,  aroused 
himself  at  last  to  a  sense  of  his  position. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  said,  in  a  low  whisper, 
"Mother,  let  me  see  him." 

"Not  now,  dearest  Julian;  wait  till  to-morrow  for 
our  sakes." 

"  V/hat  was  the  cause  of  death,  mother  ?" 

"  Disease  of  the  heart ;"  and  once  more  the  widow's 
strength  seemed  likely  to  give  way.  But  this  time  it 
was  Julian's  turn  to  whisper,  "  God's  will  be  done." 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Home,  with  Julian  and  Violet, 
entered  the  room  of  death.  Flowers  were  scattered 
on  the  bed,  and  on  that  face,  calm  as  marble  yet  soft 
as  life,  the  happy  wondering  smile  had  not  yet  even 
died  away.  And  there  Julian  received  from  his  mothei 
a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  his  father's  dying  hand  had 
traced  the  last  messages  of  undying  love;  and  when 
they  had  left  him  there  alone,  he  opened  and  read  these 
words,  written  with  weak  and  wavering  pen : — 

"My  own  dearest  boy,  in  this  world  we  shall  never 
meet  again.  But  I  die  happy,  Julian,  for  my  trust  is 
in  God,  who  cares  for  the  Avidow  and  the  fatherless. 
.A.nd  you,  Julian,  will  take  my  place  with  Violet,  Cyril, 
and  dear  Frankie — I  need  say  nothing  of  a  mother  to 
such  a  son.  God  bless  you,  my  own  boy.  Be  brave, 
and  honest,  and  pure,  and  God  will  be  with  you.  Your 
dying  father,  Henry  Home." 

The  last  part  was  almost  illegible;  but  Julian  bent 
reverently  over  his  father's  corpse,  and  it  seemed  that 


CHANGES.  30 

the  smile  brightened  on  those  dead  lips  as  he  bjwi.d 
his  young  head  in  prayer. 

Reader,  for  many  reasons  we  must  not  linger  theri. 
But  I  had  to  tell  you  of  that  death  and  of  those  dying 
words  which  Julian  knew  by  heart  through  life,  and 
which  he  kept  always  with  him  as  the  amulet  against 
temptation.  He  never  forgot  them;  and  oh!  how 
often  in  the  hours  of  trial  did  it  seem  as  if  that  dying 
message  was  whispered  in  his  ear,  "Be  brave,  and 
honest,  and  pure,  and  God  will  be  with  you." 

The  concluding  arrangements  were  soon  made.  The 
family  left  the  rectory,  but  continued  to  reside  at 
Ildown,  a  spot  which  they  loved,  and  where  they  were 
known  and  loved.  Mr.  Home  had  insured  his  life  for  a 
sum,  not  large  indeed,  but  sufficient  to  save  them  from 
absolute  penury,  and  had  besides  laid  by  sufficient  to 
continue  Julian's  education.  It  was  determined  that 
he  should  return  to  Harton,  and  there  try  for  the 
Newry  scholarship  in  time.  If  he  should  be  successful 
in  getting  this,  there  would  be  no  further  difficulty  in 
his  going  to  college,  for  it  was  expected  that  a  wealthy 
aunt  of  his  would  assist  him.  His  guardians,  however, 
were  kind  enough  to  determine  that,  even  in  case  of 
his  failing  to  obtain  the  Newry,  they  would  provide  for 
his  university  expenses,  although  they  did  not  conceal 
from  him  the  great  importance  of  his  earnestly  study- 
ing with  a  view  to  gain  this  pecuniary  aid.  Cyril  was 
sent  to  Marlby,  and  Frank,  who  was  but  ten  years  old, 
remained  for  the  present  at  Ildown  grammar  school. 

After  the  funeral,  Julian  returned  to  Harton  with  a 
sadder  and  wiser  heart.  Though  never  an  idle  boy,  he 
bad  not  as  yet  realized  the  necessity  of  throwing  him- 


iO  IAMBI. 

self  fully  into  tlie  studies  of  the  place,  but  had  rather 
given  the  reins  to  his  fancy,  and  luxuriated  in  the  gor- 
geous day-dreams  of  poetry  and  romance.  Hencefoi*- 
ward,  he  became  a  most  earnest  and  diligent  student, 
and  day  by  day  felt  that  his  intellectual  powers  grew 
Stronger  and  more  developed  by  this  healthier  nourish- 
ment. At  the  end  of  that  quarter  he  gained  his  first 
head-remove,  and  Mr.  Garden  rejoiced  heartily  in  the 
success  of  his  favorite  pupil. 

"AVhy,  Julian,  you  will  beat  us  all  if  you  go  on  at 
this  rate,"  said  he,  after  reading  over  the  trial  verses 
which  Julian  asked  him  to  criticise  after  the  examina- 
tion. "You  always  showed  taste,  but  here  we  have 
vigor,  too ;  and,  for  a  wonder,  you  haven't  made  any 
mistakes." 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  'stumped'  in  the  Greek 
'Iambi,'  sir,  as  Mr.  Clarke  calls  them." 

"Ah!  well,  you  must  take  pains.  You've  improved, 
though,  since  you  had  to  translate  Milton's 

'Smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkness,  till  it  smiled;' 

when,  you  remember,  I  gave  you  a  literal  version  of 
your  'Iambi,'  which  meant  'pounding  a  pea-green  fog.' 
Eh?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Julian;  "I  remember,  too,  that  I 
rendered  'the  moonbeams'  by  'the  moon's  rafters.'" 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Garden,  laughing;  "im- 
prove in  them  as  much  as  you  have  iu  Latin  verse,  and 
we  shall  see  you  Newry  scholar  yet." 

A  thrill  of  joy  went  through  the  boy's  heart  as  he 
heard  these  words. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

HOW    JULIAN    LOST    A    FORTUNE. 

"Most  like  a  stepdame  or  a  dowager 
Long  withering  out  a  young  maa's  revenue." 

Shaksfkai^e. 

I  MUST  not  chronicle  Julian's  school  life,  much  as  1 
should  have  to  tell  about  him,  and  strong  as  the  temp- 
tation is;  but  another  event  happened  during  his  stay 
at  Harton,  which  affected  so  materially  his  future  years 
that  I  must  proceed  to  narrate  it  now. 

Julian's  father  had  a  sister  much  older  than  himself, 
who  many  years  before  had  married  a  baronet-farmer. 
Sir  Thomas  Vinsear,  of  Lonstead  Abbey.  It  was  cer- 
tainly not  a  love-match  on  the  lady's  side,  for  the  bar- 
onet was  twenty  years  her  senior,  and  his  tastes  in  no 
respect  resembled  hers.  But  she  was  already  of  "a 
certain  age,"  and,  despairing  of  a  lover,  accepted  the 
good  old  country  squire,  and  was  located  for  the  rest 
of  her  life  as  mistress  of  Lonstead  Abbey. 

As  long  as  he  lived  all  was  well;  Lady  Vinsear,  like 
a  sensible  wife,  conformed  herself  to  all  his  wishes  and 
peculiarities,  and  won  in  no  slight  degree  his  gratitude 
and  affection.  But  he  did  not  long  survive  his  mar- 
riage, and  after  a  few  years  the  lady  found  herself 
alone  and  childless  in  the  solitary  grandeur  of  her  huS' 
bund's  home. 

4*  (41) 


42  LADV    VINSBAR. 

Her  brother  Henry,  the  rector  of  Ildown,  had  alAvays 
been  her  special  favorite,  and  she  looked  to  his  frequent 
visits  to  enliven  her  loneliness.  But  she  was  piqued 
by  his  having  married  without  consulting  her,  and  be- 
haved so  uncourteously  to  Mrs.  Home,  that  for  a  long 
time  the  intercourse  between  them  was  broken. 

One  day,  however,  shortly  before  his  death,  she  had 
written  to  announce  an  intended  visit,  and  in  due  time 
her  carriage  stood  before  the  rectory  door.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  it  was  Julian's  holiday-time,  and  he  was  at 
home.  Changed  as  the  old  lady  had  become  by  years 
and  disappointment,  and  the  ennui  of  an  aimless  widow- 
hood, little  relieved  by  the  unceasing  attendance  of  a 
confidante,  yet  Lady  Vinsear's  childless  and  withered 
heart  seemed  to  be  touched  to  life  again  Avhen  she 
gazed  on  her  brother's  beautiful  and  modest  boy. 
Courteous  without  subservience,  and  attentive  without 
servility,  Julian,  by  his  graceful  and  unselfish  de- 
meanor, \Yon  her  complete  affection,  and  she  dropped 
to  the  family  no  ambiguous  hints,  that,  for  Julian's 
sake,  she  should  renew  her  intercourse  with  them,  and 
make  him  her  heir.  Circumstanced  as  he  was,  Mr. 
Home  could  not  but  rejoice  in  this  determination,  and 
the  more  so  from  his  proud  consciousness  that  not 
even  the  vilest  detractor  could  charge  him  with  having 
courted  his  rich  sister's  favor  by  open  or  secret  arts. 
From  Julian  he  would  have  concealed  Lady  Vinsear'a 
intention,  but  she  had  herself  made  him  tolerably  aware 
cf  it,  after  a  fit  of  violent  spleen  against  Miss  Sprong, 
her  confidante,  who,  seeing  how  the  wind  lay,  had  tried 
to  drop  little  malicious  hints  against  the  favorite  nephew, 
nntil  the  old  lady  had  cut  them  short  by  a  peremptory 


JULIAN    AN    IIEIll.  43 

order  that  Miss  Sprong  i^hould  leave  the  room.  That 
little  rebuff  the  lady  never  forgot  and  never  forgave, 
and,  under  the  guise  of  admiration,  she  nursed  her 
enmity  against  the  unconscious  Julian  until  due  oppor- 
tunity should  have  occurred  to  give  it  vent. 

Every  now  and  then,  Julian,  when  wearied  with 
study,  would  be  tempted  to  think  in  his  secret  heart, 
"What  does  it  matter  my  working  so  hard,  when  I 
shall  be  master  of  Lonstead  Abbey  some  day?"  And 
then  perhaps  would  follow  a  rather  inconsistent  fit  of 
idleness,  till  Mr,  Garden,  or  some  other  master,  applied 
the  spur  again. 

"I  can't  make  you  out,  Julian,"  said  Lillyston  •, 
"sometimes  you  grind  away  for  a  month,  like — like 
beans,  and  then  you're  as  idle  again  for  a  week  as  the 
dog  that  laid  his  head  against  a  wall  to  bark." 

"Well,  shall  I  tell  you,  Hugh?"  answered  Julian, 
who  had  often  felt  that  it  would  be  a  relief  to  put  his 
friend  in  possession  of  the  secret.  And  he  told  Lilly- 
ston that  he  was  the  acknowledged  Jieir  of  his  aunt's 
property. 

"Oh,  well,  then,"  said  Lillyston,  "I  don't  see  why  I 
should  work  either,  seeing  as  how  Lillyston  Court  will 
probably  come  to  me  some  day.  I  say,  Julian,  I  vote 
we  both  try  for  lag  next  trials.  It'd  save  lots  of 
grind." 

All  this  was  brought  out  very  archly,  and  instantly 
recalled  to  Julian's  mind  the  many  arguments  which 
he  had  used  to  his  friend,  especially  since  his  father's 
death,  to  prove  that,  under  any  circumstances,  diligence 
was  a  duty  which  secured  its  own  reward ;  indeed,  he 
used  to  maintain  that,  even  on  selfish  grounds,  it  wafl 


44  AN    INVITATION. 

best,  for,  in  the  long  run,  the  idlest  boys,  with  their 
punishments  and  extras,  got  far  the  most  work  to  do- 
te say  nothing  of  the  lassitude  that  usurps  the  realm 
of  neglected  duty,  and  that  disgraceful  ignorance  which 
is  the  nemesis  of  wasted  time. 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "You  have  me  on  the  hip, 
Hugh,  and  I  give  in.  In  proof  whereof,  here  goes  the 
novel  I'm  reading;  and  I'll  at  once  set  to  work  on  my 
next  set  of  verses;"  whereon  Julian  pitched  his  green 
novel  to  the  top  of  an  inaccessible  cupboard,  got  down 
his  elegiacs  for  the  next  day,  and  had  no  immediate 
recurrence  of  what  Lillyston  christened  the  "pudding 
theory  of  work." 

It  was  during  his  last  year  at  Harton  that  Lady 
Vinsear,  in  consequence  of  one  of  her  sudden  whims, 
wrote  to  invite  him  to  Lonstead,  with  both  his  brothers; 
for  she  never  took  any  notice  of  either  Violet  or  Mrs. 
Home.     The  time  she  mentioned  was  ten  days  before 
the  Harton  holidays  began,  so  that  Frank  and  Cyril 
(who  came  back  from  Marlby  just  in  time)  had  to  go 
alone,  rather  to  their  disgust;  Julian,  however,  promis- 
ing to  join  them  directly  after  he  returned  from  school. 
The  willful  old  lady,  urged  on  by  the  confidante,  took 
considerable  umbrage  at  this,  and  wrote  that  "she  was 
quite  sure  the  doctor  would  not  have  put  any  obstacles 
in  the  way  of  Julian's  coming  had  he  been  informed  of 
her  wishes.     And  as  for  trials,"  the  Harton  word  foi 
examination,  which  Julian  had  pleaded  in  excuse,  "he 
had  better  take  care  that,  in  attending  to  the  imaginary 
trials  of  Harton,  he  didn't  increase  his  own  real  trials.' 
This  sentence  made  Julian  laugh  immoderately,  both 
from  his  aunt's  notion  of  the  universal  autocracy  of  hei 


CYKIL    AND    FRANK.  45 

^ill,  and  from  her  obvious  bewilderment  at  the  tech- 
nical word  "trials,"  which  had  betrayed  her  uncon- 
sciously  into  a  pun,  which,  of  all  things,  she  abhorred. 
However,  he  wrote  back  politely — explained  what  he 
meant  by  "trials" — begged  to  be  excused  for  a  neglect 
of  her  wishes,  which  was  inevitable — and  reiterated  his 
promise  of  joining  his  brothers,  as  early  as  was  feasible, 
under  her  hospitable  roof. 

It  was  not  without  inward  misgiving  that  Cyril  and 
Frank  found  themselves  deposited  in  the  hall  of  their 
glum  old  aunt's  large  and  lonely  house,  the  very  siya 
and  emptiness  of  which  had  tended  not  a  little  to 
increase  the  poor  lady's  vapors.  However,  they  were 
naturally  graceful  and  well  bred,  so  that,  in  spite  of  the 
patronizing  empire  assumed  over  them  by  the  vulgar 
and  half-educated  Miss  Sprong — which  Cyril  especially 
was  very  much  inclined  to  resent — the  first  day  or  two 
passed  by  with  tolerable  equanimity. 

But  this  dull  routine  soon  proved  unendurable  to  the 
two  lively  boys.  They  found  it  impossible  to  sit  still 
the  whole  evening,  looking  over  sacred  prints ;  and 
this  was  the  only  amusement  which  Miss  Sprong  sug- 
gested to  Lady  Vinsear  for  them.  Of  late  the  dowager 
had  taken  what  she  considered  to  be  a  religious  turn ; 
but,  unhappily,  the  supposed  religion  was  as  different 
from  real  piety  as  light  from  darkness,  and  consisted 
mainly  in  making  herself  and  all  around  her  miserable 
by  a  semi-ascetic  puritanism  of  observances,  and  a  stylo 
of  conversation  fit  to  drive  her  little  nephews  into  a 
lunatic  asylum. 

Though  they  both  felt  a  species  of  terror  at  theii 
ungracious  aunt,  and  the  ever-detonating  Miss  Sprong, 


46  "THE    LITTLE    BUSY    BEE." 

the  long-pent  spirit  of  fun  at  times  grew  too  strong    ^ 
in  them,  and  thej  would  call  down  sharp  rebukes  bj 
romping  in  the  drawing-room,  so  as  to  disturb  the  two 
ladies  while  they  read  to  each  other,  for  hours  together, 
the  charming  treatises  of  their  favorite  moderate  divine. 

The  boys  were  seated  on  two  stools,  in  the  silence 
3f  despair,  and  at  last  Cyril,  who  had  been  twirling  his 
chumbs  for  half  an  hour,  and  listening  to  a  dissertation 
on  Armageddon,  gave  a  yawn  so  portentous  and  pro- 
longed that  Frank  suddenly  exploded  in  a  little  burst 
of  laughter,  which  was  at  once  checked,  when  Miss 
Sprong  observed, — 

"I  think  it  would  be  profitable  if  your  ladyship" 
— Miss  Sprong  never  omitted  the  title — "would  set 
your  nephews  some  of  Watts's  hymns  to  learn." 

The  nephews  protested  with  one  voice  and  much 
rebellion,  but  at  last  their  irate  aunt  quenched  the  un- 
seemly levity,  and  they  were  fairly  set  to  work  at  Dr. 
Watts — Frank  getting  for  his  share  "The  little  busy 
bee."  But  instead  of  learning  it,  they  got  together, 
and  Cyril  began  drawing  pictures  of  cruet-stands  and 
other  impieties,  whereby  Frank  was  kept  in  fits  of 
laughter,  and  when  called  up  to  say  his  hymn,  knew 
nothing  at  all  about  it.  Cyril  sat  by  him,  and  when 
Frank  had  exhausted  his  stock  of  acquirements  by 
Baying,  in  a  tone  of  disgust, — 

"  How  dof.h  the  little  busy  bee " 

Cyril  suggested — 

"Delioht  to  bark  and  bite." 
"Oh,  yes! 


MISS    SPRONG.  47 

"How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 
Delight  to  bark  and  bite " 

How  does  it  go  on,  Cyril?"  said  Frank. 

"To  gather  honey  all  the  day, 
And  eat  it  all  the  night," 

whispered  the  audacious  brother,  conjuring  int  j  memory 
the  school-boy  version  of  that  celebrated  poem. 

Frank,  who  was  far  too  much  engrossed  in  his  own 
difficulties  to  think  of  what  he  was  saying,  artlessly  re- 
peated the  words,  and  opened  his  large  eyes  in  amaze- 
ment, when  he  was  greeted  by  a  shout  of  laughter  from 
Cyril,  and  a  little  shriek  of  indignation  from  Miss 
Sprong,  which  combined  sounds  started  Lady  Vinsear 
from  the  doze  into  which  she  had  fallen,  and  ended  in 
the  summary  ejectment  of  the  young  offenders. 

The  next  day,  to  their  own  great  relief  and  delight, 
they  were  sent  home  in  disgrace;  and  knowing  that 
their  mother  would  not  be  angry  with  them  for  a  piece 
of  childish  gayety  under  such  trying  circumstances,  they 
were  surprised  and  pained  to  see  how  grave  she  and 
Violet  looked  when  they  told  their  story.  But  Mrs 
Heme's  thoughts  had  reverted  to  Julian,  and  she  knew 
Miss  Sprong  too  well  not  to  be  aware  that  she  had 
designs  on  Lady  Vinsear's  property,  and  would  excite 
against  Julian  any  ill-will  she  could. 

That  her  fears  were  not  unfounded  was  proved  by 
the  fact  that,  in  the  middle  of  trial-week,  Julian  re- 
ceived an  altogether  intolerable  epistle  from  Miss 
Sprong,  written,  she  said,  "at  the  express  request  and 
dictation  of  his  esteemed  aunt,"  calling  him  to  account 


18  FIERY — SHORT. 

for  this  little  incident  in  a  way  that  (to  use  Lillyston's 
expression)  instantly  "put  him  on  his  hind  legs."  He 
read  a  part  of  this  letter  to  Lillyston,  and,  with  his  own 
comments,  it  ran  thus: — 

"LadyVinsear  desires  me  to  say"  (Hem!  I  doubt 
that  very  much)  "that  the  rudeness  of  those  two  little 
boys,  to  say  nothing  of  their  great  immorality  and  im- 
piety," (I  say,  that's  coming  it  too  strong,  or  rather  too 
Sprang,)  "is  such  as  to  reflect  great  discredit  on  the 
influences  to  which  they  have  been  lately " 

"By  Jove,  this  is  too  bad!"  said  Julian,  passion- 
ately; "when  she  adds  innuendoes  against  my  mother 
to  her  other  malice — I  won't  stand  it;"  and,  without 
reading  farther,  he  tossed  the  letter  into  the  fire, 
watching  with  vindictive  eyes  its  complete  consump- 
tion— 

"There  goes  the  squire — revered,  illustrious  spark! 
And  there — no  less  illustrious — goes  the  clerk!" 

he  said,  as  he  watched  the  little  red  streams  flickering 
out  of  the  black  paper  ashes.  "And  now  for  the  an- 
swer! Bother  the  woman  for  plaguing  me  (for  I  know 
it's  none  of  my  aunt's  handiwork)  in  the  middle  of 
trial- Aveek." 

"I  say,  Julian,  don't  be  too  fiery  in  your  answer, 
you  know,  for  you  really  ought  to  appease  the  poor 
old  lady.  Only  think  of  that  impudent  little  brother 
of  yours !  I  must  make  the  young  rogue's  acquaintance 
some  dav." 

But  Julian  had  seized  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  and 


A    BREAi^H.  49 

wrote  to  his  aunt,  not  condescending  to  notice,  even  by 
a  message,  her  obnoxious  amanuensis : — 

"My  dear  Aunt: — I  cannot  believe  that  the  letter 
I  received  to-day  really  emanated  from  you,  at  least 
not  in  the  language  in  which  it  was  couched. 

"I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  ('Hoity  toity, 
how  grand  we  are!')  to  attend  to  the  foolish  trifle  to 
which  your  amanuensis  ('Meaning  me!'  screamed  the 
irrepressible  Sprong)  alludes ;  but  I  am  quite  sure  that, 
on  reflection,  you  will  not  be  inclined  to  judge  too 
hardly  a  mere  piece  of  fun  and  thoughtless  liveliness; 
for  that  Frankie  meant  to  be  rude,  I  don't  for  a  moment 
believe.  I  shall  only  add,  that  if  I  were  not  convinced 
that  you  can  never  have  sanctioned  the  expressions 
which  the  lady"  (Julian  had  first  written  "person,"  but 
altered  it  afterwards)  "who  wrote  for  you  presumed  to 
apply  to  my  brothers,  and,  above  all,  to  my  mother,  I 
should  have  good  reason  to  be  ofiended;  but  feeling 
sure  that  they  are  not  attributable  to  you,  I  pass  them 
over  with  indifference.  I  am  obliged  to  write  in  great 
haste,  so  here  I  must  conclude. 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear  Aunt,  your  aff'ectionate 
nephew,  Julian  Home." 

Lady  VinsesPr  was  secretly  pleased  with  the  spirit 
which  this  letter  showed,  and  was  not  sorry  for  the 
snubbing  which  it  gave  to  her  lady-companion;  but  she 
determined  to  exercise  a  little  tyranny,  and  fancied 
that  Julian  would  be  too  much  frightened  to  resent  it. 
Accustomed  to  the  legacy-hunting  spirit  of  many  para- 
sites,  the  old  lady  thought  that  Julian  would  be  like  the 

5 


!>0  SPIRITED. 

rest,  and  hoped  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  him  reduced  to 
submission  and  obedience,  in  the  hopes  of  future  advan- 
tage; not  that  she  woukl  exult  in  his  humiliation,  but 
she  was  glad  of  any  pretext  to  bring  the  noble  boy 
before  her  as  a  suppliant  for  her  favor.  Accordingly, 
setting  aside  her  first  and  better  impulses,  she  wrote 
back  a  sharp  reply,  abusing  Cyril  and  Frank  in  round 
and  severe  terms,  and  adding  some  bitter  innuendoes 
about  the  poverty  of  the  family,  and  their  supposed 
expectations  at  her  decease.  Miss  Sprong  lent  all  the 
venom  of  her  malicious  ingenuity  to  this  precious  per- 
formance, which  fortunately  did  not  reach  Julian  until 
trials  were  nearly  over.  Tired  with  excitement  and 
hard  work,  the  boy  could  ill  endure  these  galling  allu- 
sions, and  wrote  back  a  short  and  fiery  reply: — 

"My  dear  Aunt: — If  any  one  has  persuaded  you 
that  I  am  eager  to  purchase  your  good- will  at  any  sacri- 
fice, and  that  in  consideration  of  'supposed  advantages' 
hereafter  to  be  derived  from  you,  I  shall  be  willing 
to  endure  unkindly  language  or  groundless  insinuations 
about  my  other  relatives,  then  they  have  very  seriously 
misled  you  as  to  my  real  character.  This  is  really  the 
only  reply  of  which  your  letter  admits.  I  shall  always 
be  ready,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  bestow  on  you  such 
respect  and  affection  as  our  relationship  demands  and 
your  own  kindness  may  elicit,  but  I  would  scorn  to 
win  your  favor  at  the  expense  of  a  subservience  at  once 
ungenerous  and  unjust. 

"Believe  me  to  remain,  your  affectionate  nephew, 

"Julian  Homb." 


DISINHERITED.  51 

Thia  letter  decided  the  matter.  Lady  Vinsear  wrote 
back,  that  as  he  obviously  cared  nothing  about  her,  and 
did  not  even  treat  her  with  ordinary  deference,  she  had 
that  day  altered  her  will.  Poor  old  lady!  Julian's 
angry  letter  cost  her  many  a  pang;  and  that  night,  as 
Bhe  sat  in  her  bedroom  by  her  lonely  hearth,  and 
thought  over  her  dead  brother  and  this  gallant  high- 
souled  boy  of  his,  the  tears  coursed  each  other  dowq 
her  furrowed  cheeks,  and  she  could  get  no  rest.  At 
last  she  had  taken  her  desk,  and,  with  trembling  hands, 
written : — 

"Dearest  Julian: — Forgive  an  old  woman's  whim, 
and  come  to  me  and  comfort  my  old  age.  All  I  have 
is  yours,  Julian ;  and  I  love  you,  though  I  wrote  to  you 
so  bitterly. — Your  loving  aunt, 

"Caroline  Vinsear." 

But  when  morning  came,  Sprong  resumed  her  as- 
cendancy, and  by  raking  up  and  blowing  the  cooled 
embers  of  her  patroness's  wrath,  succeeded  once  more 
in  fanning  them  to  the  old  red  heat,  after  which  she 
poured  vinegar  upon  them,  and  they  exploded  in  the 
pungent  fumes  of  the  note  which  told  our  hero  that  he 
was  not  to  hope,  for  the  future,  to  be  one  day  owner 
of  a  handsome  fortune. 

Of  course,  at  first  he  was  a  little  downcast;  and  in 
talking  to  Lillyston,  compared  himself  to  Gautier  sans 
ivoir,  and  "Wilfred  the  disinherited." 

"Never  mind,  Julian;  it  matters  very  little  to  you,' 
said  Lillyston,  proudly. 


j2  CYRIL    IN    TROUBLE. 

"Anyhow,  I  must  have  no  more  fits  of  idleness,' 
answcied  Julian ^ 

And  indeed  the  only  pain  it  caused  him  arose  from 
the  now  necessary  decision  that  he  must  go  to  St. 
Werner's  College  as  a  sizar,  or  not  at  all.  But  for 
all  that  he  went  home  with  a  light  heart,  and  had  once- 
more  gained  the  proud  distinction  of  head-remove — 
one  for  which,  at  that  time,  I  very  much  doubt  whether 
he  would  have  exchanged  the  prospect  of  a  rich  in- 
heritance. 

And  the  misfortune  proved  an  advantage  to  Cyril, 
too,  as  we  shall  see. 

"  So  here's  the  little  rogue  who  has  lost  me  a  thou- 
sand a  year !"  said  Julian,  laughingly,  when  he  got 
home,  and  took  Cyril  on  his  knee  by  the  fireside  after 
dinner.  The  next  moment  he  was  very  sorry  he  had 
said  it,  for  Cyril  hung  his  head,  and  seemed  quite  dis- 
concerted; but  his  brother  laughed  away  his  sorrow, 
as  he  thought,  and  no  further  allusion  to  the  subject 
was  made. 

But  that  night,  as  Julian  looked  into  his  brother's 
bedroom  before  he  went  to  bed,  he  found  Cyril  crying, 
and  his  pillow  wet  with  tears. 

"Cyril,  what's  the  matter,  my  boy? — you're  not  ill, 
are  you?" 

Cyril  sat  up,  his  eyes  still  swimming,  and  threw  hia 
arms  round  his  brother's  neck.  "I've  ruined  you, 
Julian,"  he  said. 

"My  dear  child,  what  nonsense!  Nay,  my  foolish 
little  fellow,"  answered  Julian,  "this  is  really  a  mis- 
take of  yours.  Aunt  Yinsear  was  angry  with  me  for 
my  letters, — not  with  you.     Don't  cry  so,  Cyril,  for  ] 


ONE    MORE    SCENE.  53 

really  don't  care  a  rush  about  it;  but  I  shall  care  if  it 
vexes  you.  But  shall  I  tell  you  why  you  ought  to 
know  of  it,  Cyril?" 

"Why?" 

**  Because,  my  boy,  it  affects  you,  too.  You  know. 
Cyril,  that  we  are  very  poor  now.  Well,  you  see  we 
shall  have  to  support  ourselves  hereafter,  and  mother 
and  Violet  depend  on  us ;  so  you  must  work  hard, 
Cyril,  will  you?  and  don't  be  idle  at  Marlby,  as  I'm 
afi'aid  you  have  been.     Eh,  my  boy?" 

The  boy  promised  faithfully,  and  performed  the 
promise  well  in  after-days;  but  that  night  Julian  did 
not  leave  him  until  he  was  fast  asleep. 

We  shall  tell  only  one  more  scene  of  Julian's  Harton 
life,  and  that  very  briefly. 

It  is  a  glorious  summer  afternoon ;  four  o'clock  bell 
is  just  over,  and  it  is  expected  that  in  a  few  minuter 
the  examiner  (an  old  Hartonian  and  senior  classic) 
will  read  out  the  list  which  shall  give  the  result  of 
many  weeks'  hard  work.  The  Newry  scholarship  is  to 
be  announced  at  the  same  time:  Bruce  and  Home  are 
the  favorite  names. 

A  crowd  of  boys  throng  round  the  steps,  but  Julian 
is  not  among  them ;  he  is  leaning  over  the  rails  of  the 
church-yard,  under  the  elm-trees  by  Peachey's  tomb, 
filled  with  a  trembling  and  almost  sickening  anxiety. 
Bruce,  confident  of  victory,  is  playing  rackets  just 
below  the  school-yard. 

The  examiner  suddenly  appears  from  the  speech- 
room  door.  There  is  a  breathless  silence  while  he 
reads  the   list,  and  then   announces,  in  an  emphatic 

voice.  — 

5* 


54  NEWRY    SCHOLARSHIP. 

"The  Newrv  scholarship  is  adjudged  to  Julian 
Home!" 

Off  darts  Lillyston,  bounds  up  the  hill  into  the 
church-yard,  and  has  informed  the  happy  Julian  of  his 
good  fortune  long  before  the  "  three  cheers  for  Mr. 
Burton"  and  "three  cheers  for  Home"  have  died 
away. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SAINT   Werner's. 

"  So  soon  the  boy  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran." 

Rogers's  Human  Ldfe. 

The  last  day  at  Harton  came;  the  last  chapel  ser- 
vice in  that  fair  school  fabric  ;  the  last  sermon,  "Arise, 
let  us  go  hence;"  the  last  look  at  the  church-yard  and 
the  fourth-form  room;  the  last  "Speecher,"  And  de- 
livering up  of  the  monitors'  keys ;  the  last  farewells  to 
Mr.  Garden  and  the  other  masters,  and  the  doctor, 
and  their  school-fellows  and  fags;  and  then,  with  swell- 
ing hearts,  Julian  and  Lillyston  got  into  the  special 
train,  thronged  with  its  laughing  and  noisy  passengers, 
and  during  the  twenty  minutes  which  were  occupied 
by  their  transit  to  London,  were  filled  with  the  melan- 
choly thought  that  the  days  of  boyhood  were  over  for- 
ever. 

"Good-by,  Frank,"  said  Julian — 

"  To-morrow,  to  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new." 

"Good-by,  Julian.  We  must  meet  next  at  St. 
Werner's." 

"Mind  you  write  meanwhile." 

"All  right.     You  shall  hear  in  a  week — good-by." 

(55) 


56  BRUCE    "EN    PRINCE." 

And  Lilljston  nodded  from  the  cab  window  his  lasi 
farewell  to  Julian  Home,  the  Harton  boj. 

But  if  there  were  partings,  what  glorious  mectinga 
tliere  were  too,  during  those  twentj-four  hours  !  Ah  \ 
they  must  be  felt,  not  written  of:  but  I  am  sure  that 
no  family  felt  a  keener  joy  that  day  than  Julian's 
mother,  and  sister,  and  brothers,  when  they  saw  him 
again,  and  learned  with  pride  that  he  had  won  a 
scholarship  of  <£100  a  year ;  even  Will  and  Mary,  the 
faithful  servants,  seemed,  when  they  heard  it,  to  look 
up  to  their  young  master  with  even  more  honor  than 
before. 

Bruce  spent  the  first  part  of  his  holidays  in  shoot- 
ing, and  the  latter  vreeks  in  all  the  gayeties  of  a  wealthy 
London  family.  He  was  naturally  self-indulgent,  and 
as  no  one  urged  him  to  make  good  use  of  his  time,  he 
devoted  it  to  every  possible  amusement  which  riches 
could  procure.  Both  he  and  his  parents  had  a  bound- 
less belief  in  his  natural  abilities,  and  these,  he  thought, 
would  be  quite  sufficient  to  gain  him  such  honors  as 
should  be  a  graceful  addition  to  the  public  reputation 
which  he  intended  to  win.  A  week  or  two  before  the 
Camford  term  commenced,  he  engaged  some  splendid 
lodgings,  the  most  expensive  which  he  heard  of,  and, 
turning  out  the  furniture  w^hich  was  usually  let  with 
them,  gave  an  almost  unlimited  order  to  a  fashionable 
upholsterer  to  see  them  fitted  out  with  due  luxury  and 
taste.  When  he  came  up  as  a  freshman,  which  he  de- 
ferred doing  until  the  last  possible  moment,  he  was 
himself  amazed  to  see  how  literally  his  orders  had  been 
obeyed.  The  rooms  were  refulgent  with  splendor: 
glossy  tables,  velvet-cushioned  chairs,  Turkey  carpets. 


SUMMER  67 

rich  curtains,  and  an  abundance  of  mirrors,  made  them; 
as  the  tradesman  remarked,  "fit  for  a  lord;"  and 
Bruce  took  possession,  with  no  little  pride  and  self- 
satisfaction,  at  finding  himself  his  own  master  in  so 
brilliant  an  abode. 

Meanwhile  the  holidays  had  passed  by  with  Julian 
very  differently,  but  very  happily.  Without  tiring 
himself,  or  harassing  his  attention  by  study,  he  made 
a  rule  of  devoting  to  work  some  portion  at  least  of 
every  day.  Long  strolls  with  his  mother  and  sister  in 
the  bright  summer  evenings,  bathes  and  boating  excur- 
sions with  Cyril  and  Frank,  and  happy,  lonely  rambles 
on  the  beach,  kept  him  in  health  and  spirits ;  and  he 
looked  forward  with  eager  ambition  to  the  arena  which 
he  was  so  soon  to  enter. 

"The  Harton  boys  have  gone  back  by  this  time, 
haven't  they?"  asked  Violet,  as  she  sat  with  her 
mother  and  brother  on  the  lawn  one  afternoon.  "Don't 
you  wish  you  were  there  again  with  them,  Julian?" 

"No,"  said  Julian,  "I  wouldn't  exchange  St.  Wer- 
ner's man  even  for  Harton  boy." 

"  How  soon  shall  you  have  to  go  up  to  St.  Werner's?" 
said  Mrs.  Home. 

"On  October  fifteenth;  in  about  a  fortnight's  time. 
I  mean  to  go  up  a  day  or  two  beforehand,  to  get  set- 
tled.    You  and  Violet  must  come  with  me,  mother." 

"But  is  that  usual?  won't  you  get  laughed  at  aa 
though  you  were  coming  up  under  female  escort?" 
asked  Violet. 

"Pooh!  you  don't  suppose  I  care  for  that,"  said 
Julian,  "even  supposing  it  were  likely  to  be  true;  be- 
gi,|es "     He  said  no  more,  but  his  proud  look  at 


58  CAMFORD. 

his   sister's   face  seemed  to   imply  that    he    expecr-i 
rather  to  hi:  envied  than  laughed  at. 

Accordingly,  they  went  up  together,  and,  as  the 
train  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  Camford,  all  three 
grew  silent  and  thoughtful.  They  were  rightly  con- 
scious that  on  the  years  to  be  spent  in  college  life  de- 
pended no  small  part  of  Julian's  future  happiness  and 
prosperity.  Three  years  at  least  would  be  spent  there  • 
years  wealthy  with  all  blessing,  or  prolific  of  evil  and 
regret. 

It  was  night  when  they  arrived,  and  in  the  dimly- 
lighted  streets  there  was  not  enough  visible  to  gratify 
Julian's  eager  curiosity.  The  omnibus  was  crowded 
with  undergraduates,  who  were  chiefly  freshmen,  but 
apparently  anxious  to  seem  very  much  at  home.  At 
the  station,  the  piles  of  luggage  seemed  interminable, 
and  Mrs.  Home  and  Violet  Avere  not  sorry  to  escape 
from  the  unusual  confusion,  to  the  quiet  of  their  hotel. 

Next  morning,  directly  after  an  impatient  breakfast, 
Julian  started  to  call  on  his  tutor. 

"Which  is  the  way  to  St.  Werner's  College?"  he 
asked  of  the  waiter. 

"Straight  along,  sir,"  was  the  reply;  and  off  he 
started  down  King's  Parade.  In  his  hurry  to  make 
the  first  acquaintance  with  his  new  college,  Julian 
hardly  stopped  to  admire  the  smooth  green  quadrangle 
and  lofty  turrets  of  King  Henry's  College,  or  St. 
Mary's,  or  the  Senate  House  and  Library,  but  strode 
on  to  the  gate  of  St.  Werner's.  Entering,  he  gazed 
eagerly  at  the  famous  great  court,  with  its  chapel,  hall, 
fountain,  and  master's  lodge;  and  then  made  his  waj 


MK.  GRAi'SON.  59 

through  the  cloister?  of  Warwick's  Court  to  his  tutor's 
rooms. 

On  entering,  he  found  himself  in  a  room  luxuriously 
furnished,  and  full  of  books.  In  a  large  arm-chair 
before  the  fire  sat  a  clergyman,  whom  Julian  at  once 
conjectured  to  be  Mr.  Grayson,  the  tutor  on  whose 
"side"  he  was  entered.  He  was  a  tall,  grave-looking 
man,  of  about  forty,  and  rose  to  greet  his  pupil  with  a 
formal  bow. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  ?     I  did  not  quite  calch 

the  name." 

"Home,  sir,"  said  Julian,  advancing  to  shake  hands 
in  a  cordial  and  confiding  manner ;  but  the  tutor  con- 
tented himself  with  a  very  cold  shake,  and  seemed  at  a 
loss  how  to  proceed. 

Julian  was  burning  with  curiosity  and  eagerness. 
He  longed  to  ask  a  hundred  questions;  at  such  a  mo- 
ment— a  moment  when  he  first  felt  how  completely  he 
ha'l  passed  over  the  boundary  which  divides  boyhood 
from  manhood — he  yearned  for  a  word  of  advice,  of 
encouragement,  of  sympathy.  He  expected,  at  least, 
something  which  should  re'semble  a  welcome,  or  a  direc- 
tion what  to  do.  Nothing  of  the  kind,  however,  came. 
While  Julian  was  awaiting  some  remark,  the  tutor 
shufiied,  hemmed,  and  looked  ill  at  ease,  as  though  at 
a  loss  how  to  begin  the  conversation. 

At  last  Julian,  in  despair,  asked,  "Whereabouts  are 
my  rooms,  sir  V 

"Oh,  the  porter  will  show  you;  you'll  find  no  diffi- 
culty about  them,"  said  the  tutor.  "Have  you  any- 
thing further  to  ask  me,  Mr.  Home?"  be  inquired,  aftei 
another  little  paase. 


so  NON-INTERFERENCE. 

"Nothing  whatever,  sir,"  said  Julian,  a  Utile  indig- 
nantly, for  he  began  to  feel  much  like  what  a  volcano 
mav  be  supposed  to  do  when  its  crater  is  filled  with 
snow.     "Have  you  anything  to  tell  me,  sir?" 

"No,  Mr.  Home.  I  hope  you'll — that  is — I  hope — 
good  morning,"  he  said,  as  Julian,  to  relieve  him  from 
an  unprofitable  commonplace,  backed  toward  the  door 
and  made  a  formal  bow. 

"Humph!"  thought  Julian.  "What  an  icicle!  not 
much  good  to  be  got  out  of  that  quarter.  An  intoler- 
ably cold  reception.  It's  odd,  too,  for  the  man  must 
have  heard  all  about  me  from  Mr.  Garden." 

As  we  shall  have  very  little  to  do  with  Mr.  Gray- 
son, we  may  here  allow  him  a  cordial  word  of  apology. 
What  was  to  Julian  the  commencement  of  an  epoch, 
was,  be  it  remembered,  to  the  tutor  a  commonplace 
and  almost  every-day  event.  The  whole  of  that  week 
he  had  been  occupied  in  receiving  visits  from  "the 
early  fathers,"  who  came  up  in  charge  of  their  sons, 
and  all  of  whom  seemed  to  expect  that  he  would  show 
the  liveliest  and  tenderest  interest  in  their  respective 
prodigies.  Other  freshmen  had  visited  him  unaccom- 
panied, and  some  of  them  appeared  rather  inclined  to 
patronize  him  than  otherwise.  He  was  a  shy  man, 
and  always  had  a  painful  suspicion  at  heart  that  people 
were  laughing  at  him.  Having  lived  the  life  of  a 
student,  he  had  never  acquired  the  polished  ease  of  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  had  a  nervous  dread  of  strangers. 
His  manners  were  but  an  icy  shield  of  self-defense 
against  ridicule,  and  they  suited  his  somewhat  sensitive 
dignity.  He  persuaded  himself,  too,  that  the  "men" 
an  his  side  were  "men"  in   years   and   discretion  aa 


MUD-UONEY.  6j 

well  as  name,  and  that  they  must  stand  or  fall  unaided, 
since  the  years  of  boyish  discipline  and  school  con- 
Btraint  were  gone  by.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  a 
word  spoken  in  due  season  might  be  of  incalculable 
benefit  t  j  many  of  his  charge.  Being  a  man  of  slow 
eensibilities,  he  could  not  sympathize  with  the  enthu- 
siastic temperament  of  youths  like  Julian,  nor  did  ho 
ever  single  out  one  of  his  pupils  either  for  partiality 
or  dislike.  Yet  he  Avas  thoroughly  kind  hearted,  and 
many  remembered  his  good  deeds  with  generous  grati- 
tude. Nor  was  he  wholly  wrong  in  his  theory  that  a 
tutor  often  does  as  much  hai-m  by  meddling  interfer- 
ence as  he  does  by  distance  and  neglect. 

When  a  boy  goes  to  college,  eager,  quick,  impetuous, 
rejoicing  as  a  giant  to  run  his  course,  he  is  generally 
filled  with  noble  resolutions  and  elevatino;  thoughts. 
There  is  a  touch  of  flame  and  of  romance  in  his  dispo- 
sition; he  feels  himself  to  be  the  member  of  a  brother- 
hood, and  longs  to  be  a  distinguished  and  worthy  one; 
he  is  anxious  for  all  that  is  grand  and  right,  and  yearns 
for  a  little  sympathy  to  support  his  determination  and 
enliven  his  hopes.  Some  there  may  be  so  dull  and 
sensual,  so  swallowed  up  in  selfishness  and  conceit,  so 
chill  to  every  generous  sentiment,  and  callous  to  every 
stirring  impulse,  that  they  experience  none  of  this; 
their  sole  aim  is,  on  the  one  hand,  to  succeed,  or,  on 
the  other,  to  amuse  and  gratify  themselves,  to  cultivate 
all  their  animal  propensities,  and  drown  in  the  mud- 
honey  of  premature  independence  the  last  relics  of 
their  childish  aspirations.  With  men  like  this,  to  dress 
showily,  to  drive  tandem  and  give  champagne  breakfasts, 
comes  as  a  matter  of  course;  while  their  supremest  de- 

6 


62  AfcSOCIATIONS. 

light  is  to  wander  back  to  their  old  school,  in  fawn 
colored  dittos,  and  witn  a  cigar  in  their  mouths,  to 
show  their  superiority  to  all  sense  of  decency  and  good 
taste.  But  these  are  the  rare  exceptions.  However 
much  they  may  conceal  their  own  emotions,  however 
dead  and  cynical  and  contemptible  they  may  grow  in 
after-days,  there  are  few  men  of  ordinary  uprightness 
who  do  not  feel  a  thrill  of  .genuine  enthusiasm  when 
they  first  enter  thu  walls  of  their  college,  and  who  will 
not  own  it  without  a  blush. 

Now  Julian  was  an  enthusiast  by  nature  and  tem- 
perament ;  all  the  sentiments  which  we  have  been 
describing  he  felt  with  more  than  ordinary  intensity. 
It  gave  a  grandeur  to  his  hopes,  and  a  distinct  sense  of 
ennobling  pleasure,  to  remember  that  he  was  treading 
the  courts  which  generations  of  the  good  and  wise  had 
trodden  before  him,  and  holding  in  his  hand  the  torch 
which  they  had  handed  down  to  him.  Their  memory 
still  lingered  there,  and  he  trusted  that  liii  name,  too, 
might  in  after-days  be  not  wholly  unremembered.  At 
least  he  would  strive,  with  a  godhke  energy,  to  fail  in 
no  duty,  and  to  leave  no  effort  unfulfilled.  If  he  viewed 
his  coming  life  too  much  in  its  poetical  aspect,  at  least 
his  glowing  aspirations  and  golden  dreams  Avei'e  tem- 
pered with  a  deep  humility  and  a  childlike  faith. 

After  fuming  a  little  at  the  icy  reception  which  hia 
tutor  had  given  him,  he  walked  up  and  down  the  courts 
thinking  of  his  position  and  his  intentions — of  the  past, 
the  present,  and  the  future — until  proud  tears  glistened 
in  his  eyes.  It  was  clear  to  him  that  now  he  would 
have  to  stand  alone  amid  life's  trials,  and  alone  face 
life's  temptations.    And  he  was  ready  for  the  struggle, 


NIL    ADMIRARI.  63 

With  God's  help  he  would  not  miss  the  meaning  of  hie 
life,  but  take  the  tide  of  opportunity  while  it  was  at  the 
flood. 

Before  rejoining  his  mother,  he  determined  to  call 
on  one  of  the  junior  fellows,  the  only  one  with  whom 
he  had  any  acquaintance,  the  Rev.  N.  Admer.  He 
only  knew  him  from  a  casual  introduction  ;  but  Mr. 
Admer  had  asked  him  to  call,  on  his  arrival  at  St. 
Werner's,  and  Julian  hoped  both  to  get  some  informa- 
tion from  him  to  dissipate  the  painful  feeling  of  strange- 
ness and  novelty,  and  also  partially  to  do  away  with 
the  effect  of  Mr.  Grayson's  coldness. 

Although  it  was  now  past  ten  in  the  morning,  he 
found  Mr.  Admer  only  just  beginning  breakfirst,  and 
looking  tired  and  lazy.  He  was  received  with  a  patron- 
izing and  supercilious  tone,  and  the  fellow  not  only 
went  on  with  his  breakfast,  but  occasionally  glanced  at 
a  newspaper  while  he  talked.  Not  that  Mr.  Admer  at 
all  meant  to  be  unkind  or  rude,  but  he  hated  enthu- 
siasm in  everv  shape;  he  did  not  believe  in  it,  and  it 
wearied  him — hence  freshmen  during  their  first  few 
days  were  his  profound  abhorrence. 

After  a  few  commonplace  remarks,  Julian  ventured 
on  a  question  or  two  as  to  the  purchases  which  he 
would  immediately  require,  the  hours  of  lecture  and 
hall,  and  the  thousand-and-one  trifles  of  which  a  new- 
comer is  necessarily  ignorant.  Mr.  Admer  seemed  to 
think  this  a  great  bore,  and  answered  languidly  enough, 
advising  Julian  not  to  be  "more  fresh"  than  he  could 
help.  It  requires  very  small  self-denial  to  make  a  per- 
son at  home  by  supplying  him  with  a  little  information; 
but  small  as  the  eflfort  would  have  been,  it  was  greater 


34  '-THAT    SORT    OF    THING." 

tlian  the  Rev.  N.  Admer  could  afford  to  make,  and  hia 
answers  were  so  little  encouraging  that  Julian,  making 
ample  allowance  for  the  ennui  condition  of  the  young 
fellow,  relapsed  into  silence. 

"And  Avhat  do  you  think  of  St.  Werner's  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Admer,  taking  the  initiative,  with  a  yawn. 

Julian's  face  lighted  up.  "Think  of  it!  I  feel  un- 
commonly proud  already  of  being  a  St.  Werner's  man." 

"Genius  loci,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  eh?" 

The  sneering  way  in  which  this  was  said  left  room 
for  no  reply,  so  Mr.  Admer  continued. 

"Ah!  you'll  soon  find  all  that  sort  of  twaddle  wear 
off." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Julian. 

"Of  course  you  intend  to  be  senior  classic,  or  senior 
wransrler,  or  something  of  that  sort?" 

"I  expect  simply  nothing;  but  if  I  were  inclined  to 
soar,  one  might  have  a  still  higher  ambition  than  that." 

"  Oh,  I  see ;  an  embryo  Newton, — all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"I  didn't  mean  quite  'all  that  sort  of  thing,'  since 
you  seem  fond  of  the  phrase,"  said  Julian;  "but  really 
I  think  my  aspirations,  whatever  they  are,  would  only 
tire  you.     Good  morning." 

"Good  morning,"  said  Mr.  Admer,  nodding.  "Wo 
don't  shake  hands  up  here.  I  shall  come  and  call  on 
you  soon." 

"The  later  the  better,"  thought  Julian,  as  he  de- 
scended the  narrow  stairs.     "Good  heavens!    is  that 
a  fair  specimen  of  a  don,  I  wonder!     If  so,  I  shaU 
certainly  confine  my  acquaintance  to  the  undergrad 
iiates.' 


"the  world  without  souls."  G/i 

No,  Julian,  not  a  fair  specimen  of  a  don  altogctliiT, 
but  in  some  of  his  aspects  a  fair  specimen  of  a  certain 
class  of  university  men,  who  profess  to  admire  nothing, 
hope  for  nothing,  love  nothing;  who  think  warmth  of 
heart  a  folly,  and  sentiment  a  crime;  who  would  not 
display  an  interest  in  anything  more  important  than  a 
boat-race  or  a  game  of  bowls,  to  save  their  lives;  who 
are  very  fond  of  the  phrase,  "all  that  sort  of  non- 
Bense,"  to  express  everything  that  rises  above  the  dead 
level  of  their  own  dead  mediocrity  in  intelligence  and 
life.  If  you  would  not  grovel  in  spirit;  if  you  would 
not  lose  every  tear  that  sparkles  and  every  sigh  that 
burns ;  if  you  would  not  ossify  the  very  poAver  of  pas- 
sion ;  if  you  would  not  turn  your  soul  into  a  mass  of 
shapeless  lead,  avoid  those  despicable  cynics,  who  never 
leave  their  discussion  of  the  merits  of  beer,  or  the 
powers  of  stroke-oars,  unless  it  be  to  carp  at  acknowl- 
edged eminence  and  jeer  at  genuine  emotion.  How 
often  in  such  company  have  I  seen  men  relapse  into 
stupid  silence,  because,  if  they  ventured  on  any  expres- 
sion of  lively  interest,  one  of  the  throng,  amid  the 
scornful  indifference  of  the  rest,  would  give  the  only 
acknowledgment  of  his  remark,  by  taking  the  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth,  to  give  vent  to  a  low  guttural  laugh ! 

After  this  it  was  lucky  for  Julian  that  he  had  brought 
his  mother  and  sister  with  him,  and  that  a  moment  after 
leaving  Mr.  Admer  he  caught  sight  of  Hugh  Lillyston. 
With  a  joyful  expression  of  surprise,  they  grasped  each 
other's  hands,  and  interchanged  so  friendly  a  greeting 
*,hat  Julian  in  an  instant  had  scattered  to  the  winda 
ihe  gloomy  impression  which  was  beginning  to  creep 
over  him. 

6* 


as  A    MEEllKd, 

"How  long  have  you  been  here,  Hugh  ?" 

"I  came  yesterday.  Have  you  seen  your  rooms 
yet?" 

"No;  I  am  just  going  to  look  for  them." 

"Well,  come  along;   I  know  where  they  are." 

"But  stop,"  said  Julian,  "I  must  go  to  the  Eagle 
first  for  my  people.     They'll  be  expecting  me." 

"Really!     So  Mrs.  Home's  here?"  asked  Lillyston. 

"Yes,  and  my  sister.  If  you've  nothing  to  do,  come 
and  be  introduced." 

"  How  immensely  jolly !  I  wish  oni/  mother  and  sister 
had  taken  the  trouble  to  come  with  me,  I  know." 

They  went  to  the  hotel,  and  Lillyston  was  able  tc 
gratify  the  curiosity  he  had  long  felt  to  see  his  friend's 
relations. 

"Whom  do  you  think  I've  brought  back  with  me, 
mother?  Guess,"  said  Julian,  as  he  entered  the  room, 
beaming  with  pleasure.  "  Here,  Hugh,  come  along. 
My  mother — my  sister — Mr.  Lillyston." 

"What!  is  this  the  Mr.  Lillyston  of  whom  we've 
heard  so  much?"  asked  Mrs.  Home,  with  a  cordial 
shake  of  the  hand,  while  Violet  looked  up  with  a  quick 
glance  of  curiosity  and  pleasure. 

"No  other,"  said  Hugh,  laughing;  "and  really  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  an  old  friend  already." 

"You  are  so,  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs.  Home,  "and 
I  hope  we  shall  often  meet  now."  Lillyston  hoped  the 
Bame,  as  he  looked  at  Violet. 

It  was  arranged  that  they  should  all  four  go  at  once 
to  Julian's  rooms,  and  help  in  the  grand  operation  of 
unpacking.  The  rooms  were  very  pleasant  attics  in 
the  great  court,  looking  out  on  the  fellows'  bowling 


.uilian's  roOxMS,  G7 

green,  and  the  Iscam  flowinff  beyond  it.  The  furni- 
ture, most  of  which  Julian  was  going  to  take  from  tho 
previous  possessor,  was  neat  and  comfortable ;  and  when 
the  book-shelves  began  to  glitter  with  his  Harton  prizes 
and  gift-books,  Julian  was  delighted  beyond  measure 
with  the  appearance  of  his  new  home. 

For  some  hours  the  unpacking  continued  vigorously, 
only  interrupted  by  an  excursion  for  lunch  to  the  hotel, 
since  Julian  had  as  yet  purchased  no  plates  and  re- 
ceived no  commons. 

On    their    return,   they   found   an   old  lady  in   the 

room-^— 

"A  charred  and  wrinkled  piece  of  womanhood," 

who,  in  a  voice  like  the  grating  of  a  blunt  saw,  informed 
Julian  that  she  was  to  be  his  bed-maker,  and  asked  him 
whether  he  intended  "  to  tea"  in  his  rooms  that  evening. 
(The  verb  "to  tea"  is  the  property  of  bed-makers,  and, 
with  beautiful  elasticity,  it  even  admits  of  a  perfect 
tense — as,  "have  you  tea'd?") 

"By  all  means,"  said  Julian;  "lay  the  table  for  four 
this  evening  at  eight  o'clock,  and  get  me  some  bread 
and  butter.     You'll  stay,  Hugh,  won't  you?" 

"I  should  like  to,  very  much.     But Won't  it  be 

your  last  evening  with  your  mother  and  Miss  Home?" 

"Yes;  but  never  mind  that." 

Lillyston  shook  his  head,  and,  bidding  the  ladies  a 
warm  good-by,  left  them  to  enjoy  with  Julian  his  first 
quiet  evening  in  St.  Werner's,  Camford. 

"I  must  hang  my  pictures  before  ycu  go,  Violet.  I 
shall  want  your  advice." 

"Well,  let  me  see,"  said  Violet.  "The  water-color 
likenesses  of  Cyril  and  Frankie  ought  to  go  here,  one 


58  ME-    VERB — FRA    ANGELICO. 

on  each  side  of  Mr.  Vere;  at  least,  I  suppose,  you  mean 
to  put  Mr.  Vere  in  the  place  of  honor?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Julian;  "every  time  I  look  on 
that  noble  face,  so  full  of  strength  and  love,  and  so 
marked  with  those  'divine  hieroglyphics  of  sorrow,'  ] 
shall  learn  fresh  lessons  of  endurance  and  wisdom." 

*' People  will  certainly  call  you  a  heretic,  if  you  do,' 
laughed  Violet. 

"People!"  said  Julian,  scornfully; 

" '  Of  whom  to  be  dispraised  were  no  small  praise.' 

Let  them  yelp." 

Mr.  Vere  was  an  eminent  clergyman,  who  had  bee  "\ 
an  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Home  before  his  deatb. 
Julian  had  only  heard  him  preach,  and  met  him  occa- 
sionally; but  he  had  read  some  of  his  works,  and  had 
received  from  him  so  much  sympathizing  kindness  and 
intellectual  aid,  that  he  regarded  him  with  a  love  and 
reverence  little  short  of  devotion — as  a  man  distin- 
guished above  all  others  for  his  gentleness,  his  elo- 
quence, his  honesty,  his  learning,  and  his  love.  This 
likeness  had  belonged  to  Mr.  Home,  and  Julian  had 
asked  leave  to  carry  it  with  him  whenever  he  should 
go  to  the  university. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "the  place  of  honor  for  Mr.  Vere. 
But  where  shall  I  put  the  Fra  Angelico?" 

"Dear  old  Beato,"  said  Violet;  "put  him  opposite 
the  door,  that  he  may  give  a  sensation  of  peace  and 
beauty  to  every  one  who  enters  the  room." 

"Yes;  I  do  think  this  would  touch  even  the  soul  of 
%  bed-maker  or  a  gyp,"  said  Julian. 

So  they  hung  it,  in  a  good  light,  directly  facing  the 


I 


FRA    ANGELICO.  69 

door.  It  was  a  chromo-lithograph  of  Angelico's  Frank- 
tort  picture,  and  was  very  pleasant  to  look  at  as  a  mere 
effect  of  color,  from  the  predominance  of  blue  and  gold. 
It  had  always  been  a  favorite  with  Julian;  it  could  not 
but  be  a  favorite  with  any  man  of  pure  taste  or  refined 
Bcntiments.  Exactly  in  the  center,  under  a  baldaccino, 
with  a  roof  of  blue  and  gold,  sits  the  Virgin,  her  tresses 
hidden,  but  her  fair,  holy,  tender  face  visible  under  the 
graceful  and  exquisitely  symmetrical  folds  of  her  falling 
robe  of  pale  blue,  which  is  edged  with  a  thin  golden 
broidery,  and  clasped  by  a  gem  over  her  bosom.  In 
her  arms  is  the  Holy  Child,  the  figure  infantine  with 
the  first  flaxen  hair,  but  the  face  full  of  mystery  and 
love.  On  either  side,  round  the  steps  of  the  throne,  is 
a  crown  of  choiring  angels,  six  on  either  side,  each 
corresponding  to  each,  all  with  their  glorious  faces 
turned  toward  the  Virgin  and  Child,  each  in  a  dif- 
ferent attitude  of  awe  and  worship,  with  white  hands 
uplifted  and  intertwined,  and  lambent  flames  over  their 
foreheads,  symbolizing  the  fervor  of  love,  and  shedding 
a  roseate  glow  over  their  star-like  nimbuses  and  waving 
curls.  Each  of  their  glories  is  golden,  and  pierced 
with  small  flower-like  dots,  except  that  of  the  Infant 
Saviour,  whose  golden  halo  is  broken  by  the  red  lines 
of  a  cross.  The  whole  is  on  a  goltlen  ground,  which 
admirably  throws  out  the  radiant  and  mingled  colors 
of  the  dove-like  angelic  wings.  No  one  could  look 
thoughtfully  at  the  picture  without  a  feeling  of  deep 
devotion,  and  without  a  reverence  for  the  great  and 
holy  painter,  who  painted  only  for  God's  glory,  who 
refused  all  praise  as  due  only  to  the  subjects  which  he 
chose,  and  who  rightly  attributed   to  inspiration  his 


70  ST.  MARY    OF    EGYPT JACOB'S    DREAM. 

power  of  seeing  and  of  representing  the  spiritual  beaut_y 
of  those  young,  unfading,  seraphic  faces  that  reflect  for- 
ever the  emeraki  of  the  rainbow  and  the  sunlight  of  the 
throne. 

"The  Ribera  will  be  a  capital  pendant  to  the  Fra 
Angelico;  won't  it,  Vi.?"  said  Julian,  driving  a  nail 
into  the  wall  on  the  other  side  of  the  window. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Home;  "there  will  be  something 
Buji^estive  to  a  thoughtful  mind  in  the  contrast  of  the 
Virgin  Mother  with  the  bienheureuse  pecheresse.''  The 
picture — a  fine  engraving  of  Spagnoletto's  chef-d'oeuvre 
— represented  St,  Mary  of  Egypt  kneeling  in  an  atti- 
tude of  rapt  devotion  beside  her  own  open  grave,  while 
over  her  fair  shoulders,  and  rippling  down  to  her  bare 
feet,  stream  the  long  disheveled  tresses  of  her  dark 
hair,  touched  into  a  golden  gleam  where  the  light  falls 
on  it,  and  vailing  her  whole  form  in  its  soft  drapery, 
while  an  angel  clothes  her  in  the  pure  raiment,  bathed 
in  the  blood 

"  which  hath  this  might — 
That,  being  red,  it  dyes  red  soules  to  white." 

"And  where  shall  we  hang  this?"  said  Julian,  taking 
up  a  photograph  of  Van  Dyck's  great  painting  of  Jar 
cob's  Dream.  Tile  Hebrew  boy  is  sleeping  on  the 
ground,  and  his  long  dark  curls,  falling  oif  his  fore- 
head, mingle  with  the  rich  foliage  of  the  surrounding 
plants,  fanned  by  the  waving  of  mysterious  wings ;  a 
cherub  is  lightly  raising  the  embro"dered  cap  that  par- 
tially shades  his  face,  and  at  his  feet,  blessing  him 
with  uplifted  hand,  stands  a  majestic  angel,  on  whose 
flowing  robes  of  white  gleams  a  celestial  radiance  froa 


Jacob's  dream.  71 

the  vista,  alight  with  heavenly  faces,  that  opens  over 
his  head.  A  happy  and  holy  slumber  seems  to  breathe 
from  the  lad's  countenance,  and  yet  you  can  tell  that 
the  light  of  dreams  has  dawned  under  his  "closed  eye 
lids,"  and  that  the  inward  eye  has  caught  full  sight  of 
that  Beatific  Epiphauy. 

"We  must  hang  this  in  your  bedroom,  Julian,"  said 
Mrs.  Home.  "  I  shall  love  to  think  of  you  lying  under 
the  outstretched  hand  of  this  heavenly  watcher." 

So  they  hung  it  there,  and  the  task  was  over,  and 
they  spent  a  happy  evening  together.  Next  morning 
Julian  accompanied  them  to  the  train,  and  walked  back 
to  the  matriculation  examination. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

RENCONTRES. 

•'A.  boy — no  better — with  his  rosy  cheeks 
Angelical,  keen  eye,  courageous  look, 
And  conscious  step  of  purity  and  pride." 

Wordsworth's  Pi  dvde. 

A  PUBLIC  school  man  is  bj  no  means  lonely  when 
he  first  enters  the  university.  He  finds  many  of  hia 
old  school-fellows  accompanying  him,  and  many  who 
have  gone  up  before  him,  and  he  feels  united  to  them 
all  by  a  bond  of  fellowship,  which  at  once  creates  for 
him  a  circle  of  friends.  Had  Julian  merely  kept  up 
his  Harton  acquaintances,  he  would  have  known  as 
many  Camford  men  as  were  at  all  necessary  for  the 
purposes  of  society. 

But  although  with  most  or  all  of  the  Hartonians 
Julian  remained  on  pleasant  and  friendly  terms,  there 
were  others  whom  he  saw  quite  as  much,  and  whose 
society  he  enjoyed  all  the  more  thoroughly  because 
their  previous  associations  and  experiences  were  dif- 
ferent from  his  own.  And,  on  looking  back  in  after- 
times,  what  a  delight  it  was  to  remember  the  noble 
hearts  which,  during  those  years  of  college  life,  had 
always  beaten  in  unison  with  his  own.  Few  enjoy- 
ments were  more  keen  than  that  social  equality  and 
unconventional  intercourse  common  among  all  under- 
(72) 


EDWARD    KENNEDY.  73 

graduates,  wliicli  might  at  any  time  ripen  into  an 
earnest  and  invaluable  friendship,  or  merely  stop  at 
the  stage  of  an  agreeable  acquaintanceship.  A  great 
(and  not  the  least  useful)  portion  of  university  educa- 
tion consisted  in  the  intimate  knowledge  of  character, 
and  the  many-sided  sympathies  which  were  thus  insen- 
sibly acquii-ed. 

During  the  first  few  weeks  of  college  life,  of  course 
a  good  deal  of  time  was  spent  in  receiving  and  return- 
ing the  visits  of  acquaintances,  old  and  new.  Of  the 
latter,  there  was  one  with  whom  Julian  and  Lillyston 
wore  equally  charmed,  and  who  soon  became  their  con- 
stant companion.  His  name  was  Kennedy :  Julian 
first  got  to  know  him  by  sitting  next  him  in  the  lecture- 
room.  Ilis  lively  remarks,  his  keen  and  vivid  sense  of 
the  ludicrous,  the  quick  yet  kindly  notice  he  took  of 
men's  peculiarities,  his  ardent  appreciation  of  the  books 
which  occupied  their  time,  and  the  pleasant,  rapid  way 
in  which  he  would  dash  off  a  caricature,  soon  attracted 
notice,  and  he  rapidly  became  popular,  both  among 
undergraduates  and  dons.  He  was  known,  too,  by  the 
warm  eulogy  of  his  fellow-Marlbeians,  who  were  never 
tired  of  singing  his  praises  among  themselves. 

"Splendid!"  whispered  he  to  Julian,  warmly,  after 
Julian  had  just  finished  construing  a  difficult  clause  in 
the  Agamemnon,  which  he  had  done  with  a  spirit  and 
fire  which  even  kindled  a  spark  of  admiration  in  the 
cold  breast  of  Mr.  Grayson.  "  Splendidly  done,  Home ! 
I  say,  how  very  reserved  you  are.  Here  have  I  been 
longing  to  know  you  for  the  last  ten  days,  and  we  have 
hardly  got  beyond  a  nod  to  each  other  yet.  Do  come 
in  to  tea  at  my  rooms  to-night  at  eight.     I  want  to 

7 


74  AT    LECTURE 

introduce  yuu  to  a  friend  of  mine — Owen  of  Roslyn 
Bchool." 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Julian.  "That  dark-haired 
fellow  is  Owen,  is  it  not?  I  hear  he's  going  to  do  great 
things !" 

"Oh,  yes!  booked  for  a  fellow  and  a  double-first; 
BO  you  ought  to  know  him,  you  know." 

"Silence,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Grayson,  turning  his 
Btony  gaze  on  Kennedy,  whose  bright  face  instantly 
assumed  a  demure  expression  of  deep  attention,  while 
the  light  of  laughter  which  still  danced  in  his  eyes 
might  have  betrayed  to  a  careful  observer  the  fact  that 
the  notes  on  Avhich  he  appeared  to  be  so  assiduously 
occupied  mainly  consisted  of  replications  of  Mr.  Gray- 
son's placid  physiognomy  and  Roman  nose, 

"I've  brought  an  umbra  with  me,  Kennedy,  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  Lillyston,  who  sits  next  me  at  lectures, 
and  wanted  to  be  introduced  to  you,"  said  Owen,  as  he 
came  into  Kennedy's  room  that  evening. 

"I'm  delighted,"  said  Kennedy,  "Mr.  Lillyston, 
let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Home." 

"We  hardly  need  an  introduction,  Hugh,  at  this  time 
of  day,  do  we?"  said  Julian,  laughing;  and  the  four 
were  soon  as  much  at  home  as  it  was  possible  for  men 
to  be.  There  was  no  lack  of  conversation.  I  think 
the  rooms  of  a  Camford  undergraduate  are  about  the 
last  place  where  con'.ersation  ever  flags;  and  when  men 
like  Kennedy,  Owen,  Julian,  and  Lillyston  meet,  it  if? 
perhaps  more  genuinely  earnest  and  interesting  than 
in  any  other  time  or  place. 

The  next  day,  as  Kennedy  was  sitting  in  Julian's 
rooms,  glancing  over  the  iEschylus  with  him,  in  strut- 


HAZLET.  75 

ted  Hazlet,  whom  we  liave  incidentally  mentioned  as 
havinff  been  the  son  of  a  widow  ladv  living;  at  Ild(;wn. 
He  had  come  up  to  Camford  straight  from  heme,  and 
as  he  had  only  received  a  home-education  everything 
was  strangely  bewildering  to  him,  and  Julian  was 
almost  the  only  friend  he  knew.  Nor  was  he  likely  to 
attract  many  friends;  his  manner  was  strangely  self 
confident,  and  his  language  dictatorial  and  dogmatic, 
In  his  mother's  house  he  had  long  been  the  center  of 
religious  tea-parties,  before  which  he  was  often  called 
upon  to  read  and  even  to  expound  the  Scriptures. 
"At  the  tip  of  his  subduing  tongue"  were  a  number  oi 
fantastic  phrases,  originally  misapplied,  and  long  since 
worn  bare  of  meaning:  and  the  test  of  his  orthodoxy 
was  the  universality  with  which  he  could  reiterate 
proofs  of  heresy  against  every  man  of  genius,  honesty, 
and  depth — who  loved  truth  better  than  he  loved  the 
oracles  of  the  prevalent  idols.  Hazlet  practiced  the 
duty  of  Christian  charity  by  dealing  indiscriminate 
condemnation  against  all  except  those  who  belonged  to 
his  own  exclusive  and  somewhat  ignorant  school  of  re- 
ligious intolerance.  His  face  was  the  reflex  of  his 
mind ;  his  lank  black  hair  stuck  down  in  stiflf  dry 
straisihtness  over  a  contracted  forehead  and  an  ill- 
shaped  head ;  his  spectacles  gave  additional  glassiness 
to  a  lack-luster  eye,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  car 
ried  his  chin  in  the  air  seemed  like  an  acted  representa- 
tion of  "I  am  holier  than  thou." 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  hold  up  to  ridicule  any  body 
of  earnest  and  honest  men,  to  whatever  party  they  may 
belono".  I  am  writing  of  Hazlet,  not  of  those  who 
hold  the  same  opinions  as  he  did.     That  man  niust  have 


H]  THE    TRUTH    IN    UNRIGHTEOUSNESS. 

been  unfortunate  in  life  who  has  not  many  friends,  and 
irienJs  -wliom  he  holds  in  deep  affection,  amoug  the  ad- 
herents of  opinions  most  entirely  antagonistic  to  his 
own.  Hazlet's  repulsiveness  was  due  to  a  very  mis- 
taken education,  developing  a  very  foolish  idiosyncrasy, 
and  especially  to  the  pernicious  system  of  encouraging 
sentiments  and  expressions  which  in  a  boy's  mind  could 
not  be  other  than  sickly  exotics.  He  had  to  be  taught 
his  own  hypocrisy  by  the  painful  progress  of  events, 
and,  above  all,  he  had  to  learn  that  religious  shibbo- 
leths may  be  no  proof  of  sanctification,  and  that  reli- 
gious intolerance  is  usually  the  hybrid  offspring  of 
ignorance  and  conceit.  In  many  essential  matters  he 
held  the  truth, — but  he  held  it  in  unrighteousness. 

It  may  be  imagined  that  Hazlet  was  no  favorite 
companion  of  Julian  Home.  But  Julian  loved  and 
honored  to  the  utmost  of  his  power  the  good  points  of 
all;  he  had  a  deep  and  real  veneration  for  humanity, 
and  rarely  allowed  himself  an  unkind  expression,  or  a 
look  which  indicated  ennui,  even  to  those  associates  by 
whose  presence  he  was  most  unspeakably  bored.  Haz- 
let mistook  his  courteous  manner  for  a  deferential 
agreement,  and  was,  too  often,  in  Julian's  presence 
more  than  usually  insufferable  in  his  Pharisaical  ten- 
dencies. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Kennedy,  who  saw  Hazlet 
coming  across  the  court.  "  Who's  this,  Home  ?  He 
looks  as  if  he  had  been  just  presiding  at  three  conven- 
ticles and  a  meeting  at  Philadelphus  Hall.  Surely  he 
"jan't  be  coming  here." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Julian,  "  that  s  a  compatriot  of  min? 


THE    "  POOR    BLIND    HEATHEN. 


named  Hazlet ;   a  very  good  fellow,  I  believe,  though 
rather  obtrusive  perhaps." 

"Good  morning,  Home,"  said  Hazlet,  in  a  measured 
and  sanctified  tone,  as  he  entered  the  room  and  sat 
down. 

Kennedy"  glanced  impatiently  at  the  ^schylus. 

"Ah!  I  see  you're  engaged  on  that  heathen  poet. 
It  often  strikes  me.  Home,  that  we  may  be  wrong  after 
all  in  spending  so  much  time  on  these  works  of  men, 
who,  as  St.  Paul  tells  iis,  were  *  wholly  given  to  idola- 
try.' I  have  just  come  from  a  most  refreshing  meeting 
at " 

"I  say.  Home,"  cut  in  Kennedy  hastily,  "shall  I 
go  ?  I  suppose  you  won't  do  over  any  more  of  the 
Agamemnon  this  morning." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Julian;  "perhaps  Hazlet  will 
join  us  in  our  construe." 

"No,  I  think  not,"  said  Hazlet,  with  a  compassionate 
sio^h.  "I  have  looked  at  it;  but  some  of  it  appeared  to 
me  so  pagan  in  its  sentiments  that  I  contented  myself 
with  praying  that  I  might  not  be  put  on.  But  ycu 
haven't    told  me  what    you  think   about  what   I  was 

saying." 

"Botheration!"  said  Kennedy;  "so  your  theory  is 
that  Christianity  was  intended  to  put  an  extinguisher 
over  the  light  of  heaven-born  genius,  and  that  the 
power  and  passion  and  wisdom  of  ^schylus  came  from 
himself  or  the  devil,  and  not  from  God?  Surely, 
without  any  further  argument  on  such  an  absurd  pro- 
position, it  ought  to  be  sufficient  for  you  that  this  kind 
of  learning  forms  a  part  of  your  immediate  duty." 

7* 


78  DIABOLUS    INSPIllAUS EXTRACTS. 

*'  1  End  Other  duties  more  paramount — now  pravor 
for  instance,  and  talk  with  sound  friends " 

"  Phew  !"  whistled  Kennedy,  thoroughly  disgusted 
at  languao-e  which  was  as  new  to  him  as  it  was  dis- 
tasteful ;  and,  to  relieve  his  feelings,  he  abandoned  the 
conversation  to  Julian,  and  began  to  turn  over  the 
books  on  the  table.  Julian,  however,  seemed  quite 
disinclined  to  enter  into  the  question;  and,  after  a 
pause,  Hazlet,  gracefully  waiving  his  little  triumph, 
asked  him  with  a  peculiar  unction, — 

"And  how  goes  it,  my  dear  Home,  with  your  im- 
mortal soul  ?" 

"My  soull"  said  Julian,  carelessly.  "Oh!  it's  all 
right." 

"One  would  think  from  your  question  that  souls 
were  liable  to  stomaohacbes,"  said  Kennedy,  curtly. 

llazlet  looked  Phdadelphus  thunder  at  the  profanity ; 
but  being  too  much  taken  aback  to  make  any  remark, 
he  got  up,  and  began  to  look  at  Julian's  pictures. 

"Ah!"  he  observed  with  a  deep  sigh,  "I'm  sorry 
to  see  that  you  have  the  portrait  of  so  unsound,  so 
dangerous  a  man  as  Mr.  Vere." 

"We'll  drop  that  topic,  please,  Hazlet,"  said  Julian, 
"as  we're  not  likely  to  agree  upon  it." 

"  Have  you  ever  read  one  word  that  Mr.  Vere  ever 
wrote  V"  asked  Kennedy. 

"Well,  yes;  at  least  no,  nut  exactly:  but  still  one 
may  judge,  you  know;  besides,  I've  seen  extracts  of 
his  works." 

"Extracts!"  answered  Kennedy,  scornfully;  "ex- 
tracts which  often  attribute  to  him  the  very  sentiments 
which  he  is  opposing.     But  it  isn't  worth  arguing  with 


HAZLET    ON    THE    FINK    ARTS  7S 

one  of  your  school,  who  have  the  dishonesty  to  con- 
demn writers  whom  you  are  incapable  of  understand- 
ing, on  the  faith  of  extracts  which  they  haven't  even 
read." 

The  wrathful  purpling  of  Hazlet's  sallow  counte- 
nance portended  an  explosion  of  orthodox  spleen;  but 
Julian  gently  interposed  in  time  to  save  the  devoted 
Kennedy  from  a  few  unmeasured  anathemas. 

"Hush!"  he  said,  "none  of  the  odium  theologicum, 
please,  lest  the  mighty  shade  of  ^schylus  smile  at  you 
in  scorn.     Do  drop  the  subject,  Ilazlet." 

"Very  well,  if  you  like,  Home;  but  I  must  deliver 
my  conscience,  you  know.  But  really,  Julian,  you  are 
not  very  Christian  in  your  other  pictures  ;  now  look  at 
this  young — young  person.  I  really  don't  consider  it 
quite  a  modest  picture."  He  pointed  to  the  St.  Mary 
of  Egypt,  being  chid  in  the  white  robe  of  a  Saviour's 
innocence,  and  "  vailed  in  the  long  night  of  her  dark 
hair." 

Kennedy  almost  kicked  his  chair  over  in  the  im- 
patience of  the  gesture  with  which  he  received  this 
apostrophe,  and  he  rose  up  with  an  exclamation  that 
sounded  suspiciously  like  "Fool !   0  fool!" 

"  To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure,"  answered  Julian, 
calmly, — and  checked  himself  without  continuing  the 
D[Uotation. 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Hazlet,  after  your  criticism  of  that  pic 
ture,  you'll  excuse  me  asking  whether  you  don't  think 

there  are  some  very  improper  things  in " 

"  My  dear  Kennedy,"  whispered  Julian,  "  pray  don't 
let's  have  an  argument;  it  really  isn't  worth  while." 
Kennedy  subsided   into   the  recess  of  the  window- 


go  KENNEDY    EXCITED. 

biding  himself  behind  the  curtain,  but  Hazlet,  continu- 
ing his  victorious  career,  proceeded  to  scrutinize  the 
Fra  Ansjelico.  "And  what  have  we  here?"  he  ob- 
eerved  sententiously.  "  Why,  really,  my  dear  Home, 
this  is  quite  papistical;  it  is  indeed.  Why,  here's  tho 
Virgin  Mary;  really,  it's  quite  Mariolatry — what  1 
once  heard  an  eminent  anti-papistical  scholar  call 
hyperdulia  of  the  Virgin.  Do  let  me  persuade  you  to 
remove  this  idolatrous  relic ;  only  think,  Julian,  what 
dangerous  results  it  might  produce  on  the  perhaps  un- 
regenerate  mind  of  your  bed-maker  for  instance." 

.  This  was  too  much  even  for  Julian's  politeness,  and 
he  joined  in  the  shout  of  laughter  with  which  Kennedy 
greeted  this  appeal. 

'*  Fools  make  a  mock  at  sin,"  said  Hazlet,  austerely. 
"I  trust  that  you  will  both  be  brought  to  a  better  state 
of  mind ;  I  shall  make  it  a  special  subject  of  prayer 
with  the  few  Christian  and  congenial  friends  whom  I 
can  find  here.     Good  morning  !" 

Kennedy  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair,  and  after 
finishing  his  laugh,  exclaimed,  "My  dear  Home,  where 
did  you  pick  up  that  intolerable  hypocrite?" 

"  Hush,  Kennedy,  hush!  don't  call  him  a  hypocrite. 
His  mode  of  religion  may  be  very  offensive  to  us,  and 
yet  it  may  be  sincere." 

"  Faugh  !  the  idea  of  asking  you,  '  How's  your  soul  V 
It  reminds  me  of  a  friend  of  mine  who  was  suddenly 
asked  by  a  dissenting  minister  in  a  train,  '  if  he  didn't 
feel  an  aching  void  ?'  'An  aching  void  ?  where  ?'  said 
Jones,  in  a  tone  of  alarm,  for  he  was  an  unimaginative 
person.  '  Within,  sir,  within !'  said  the  stranger. 
Jones   felt  anxiously  to  find  whether  one  of  his  ribs 


HALLOWED    SECRETS.  81 

was  accidentally  protruding,  but  finding  them  all  safe, 
Bet  down  the  minister  for  a  lunatic,  and  moved  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  carriage." 

Julian  smiled  ;  he  was  more  accustomed  to  this  kind 
of  phraseology  than  his  friend,  and  knew  that  out- 
rageous as  it  was  to  good  taste  under  the  circum- 
stances, it  yet  might  spring  from  a  sincere  and  honor- 
able motive,  or  at  best  must  be  regarded  as  the  natural 
result  of  innate  vulgarity  and  mistaken  training. 

"Surely  at  best,"  continued  Kennedy,  "it's  a  most 
unwarrantable  impertinence  for  a  fellow  like  that  to 
want  to  dabble  his  ignorant  and  coarse  hand  in  the 
hallowed  secrets  of  the  microcosm.  Not  to  one's 
nearest  and  dearest  friend,  not  to  one's  mother  or 
brother  would  one  babble  promiscuously  on  such  awful 
themes;  and  to  have  the  soul's  sublime  and  eternal 
emotions,  its  sacred  and  unspoken  communings,  lugged 
out  into  farcical  prominence  by  such  conversational 
cant  as  that,  is  to  dry  up  the  very  fountain  of  true  re-i 
ligion,  and  put  a  premium  on  the  successful  grin  of  an 
offensive  hypocrisy." 

Kennedy  seemed  quite  agitated,  and  as  usual  found 
relief  in  striding  up  and  down  the  room.  His  religious 
feelings  were  deep  and  real — none  the  less  so  for  being 
hidden — and  Hazlet's  language  and  manner  had  given 
him  a  rude  shock. 

"  Another  hour  in  that  fellow's  company  would  make 
me  an  infidel,"  he  exclaimed  with  quivering  lip.  "Pray 
for  me,  indeed,  with  some  of  his  '  sound  and  congenial 
friends! '  Faugh  !  '  Sound  !'  How  does  he  dare  to  Judge 
whethei    his  superiors  are   'sound'  or  not?   and  why 


82  LOVE    ONE    ANOTHER. 

must  he  borrow  a  metaphor  from  Stilton  cheeses  whe^i 
he's  talking  of  religious  convictions  !" 

"Why  really,  Kennedy,"  said  Julian,  "to  see  the 
contempt  written  in  your  face,  one  would  think  you 
were  an  archangel  looking  at  a  black  beetle,  as  a 
learned  judge  once  observed.  If  you  won't  regard 
Hazlet  as  a  man  and  a  brother,  at  least  remember  that 
he's  a  vertebrate  animal." 

But  Kennedy  was  not  to  be  joked  out  of  his  indig- 
nation; so  Julian  continued.  "  I  wish  you  knew  more 
of  Lillyston.  At  one  time,  I  should  have  been  nearly 
as  much  bothered  by  Hazlet  as  you,  but  Lillyston's 
kind,  genial  good  humor  with  every  one,  and  the 
genuine  respectful  sympathy  which  he  shows  even  for 
things  he  can  least  understand,  have  made  me  much 
happier  than  I  should  have  been.  Now,  he  might  have 
done  Hazlet  some  good,  whereas  your  opposition,  my 
dear  fellow,  will  only  make  him  more  rampant  than 
ever.     Ah,  here  Lillyston  comes !" 

"What  an  honest  open  face!"  said  Kennedy. 

"Like  the  soul  which  looks  through  it,  sans  peur 
et  sans  reproche,"  said  Julian  warmly. 

"  Rather  a  contrast  to  the  last  comer,"  murmured 
Kennedy,  as  he  picked  up  his  cap  and  gown  to  walk 
to  the  lecture-room. 

"  There,  don't  think  of  Hazlet  any  more,"  said  Julian 

' '  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small, 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all.' 

A  capital  good  motto  that,  i?n't  it,  Hugh  V" 


HOW    TO    "ilOJJSTRUE.  StJ 

"  I  must  love  Hazlet  as  one  of  the  very  small  things, 
then,"  said  the  incorrigible  Kennedy,  as  he  left  the 
room  with  the  other  two. 

Hazlet  was  put  on  to  construe  during  the  lecture, 
and  if  anything  could  have  shaken  the  brazen  tower  of 
his  self-confidence,  it  would  have  been  the  egregious 
display  of  incapacity  which  followed;  but  Hazlet  rather 
piqued  himself  on  his  indifference  to  the  poor  blind 
heathen  poets,  on  whose  names  he  usually  dealt  repro 
bation  broadcast.  "  Like  lions  that  die  of  an  ass's 
kick,"  those  wronged  great  souls  lay  prostrate  befoie 
Hazlet's  wrathful  heels. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE     SCORN     OF     SCORN. 

"  And  not  a  man,  for  being  simply  man, 
Hath  any  honor,  but  honor  for  those  honors 
That  are  without  him — as  place,  riches,  favor — 
Prizes  of  accident  as  oft  as  merit." — Shakspkabb. 

Very  diiferent  in  all  respects  were  Julian's  rencon- 
ters  with  others  of  his  old  school- fellows.  There  were 
some,  indeed,  among  them  who  had  left  Harton  while 
they  were  still  in  low  forms,  and  some  whose  tastes 
and  pursuits  were  so  entirely  different  from  his  own, 
that  it  was  hardly  likely  that  he  should  maintain  any 
other  intercourse  with  them  than  such  as  Avas  demanded 
by  a  slight  acquaintance.  But  of  Bruce,  at  any  rate, 
it  might  have  been  expected  that  he  would  see  rather 
more  than  proved  to  be  the  case.  Bruce,  as  having 
been  head  of  the  school  during  the  period  when  Julian 
was  a  monitor,  had  been  thrown  daily  into  his  com- 
pany, and,  as  inmates  of  the  same  house,  they  had 
acted  together  in  the  thousand  little  scenes  which 
diversify  the  bright  and  free  monotony  of  a  school- 
boy's life. 

But  the  first  fortnight  passed  by,  and  Bruce  had  not 
called  on  Julian,  and  as  they  were  on  diflFerent  "sides," 
they  had  not  chanced  to  meet,  either  in  lecture-room  oi 


VYVYAN    BRrCE.  85 

elsewheie.  Julian,  not  knowing  ■whether  his  position  aa 
Bizar  would  make  any  difference  in  Bruce's  estimation 
of  him,  had  naturally  left  him  to  take  the  initiative  in 
calling;  while  Bruce,  on  the  other  hand,  always  a  little 
jealous  of  his  brilliant  contemporary,  and  not  too 
anxious  to  be  familiar  with  a  sizar,  pretended  to  him- 
self that  it  was  as  much  Julian's  place  as  his  to  be  first 
in  calling.  Hence  it  was  that,  for  the  first  fortnight, 
the  two  did  not  happen  to  come  across  each  other. 

Meanwhile  Bruce  also  had  made  many  fresh  ac- 
quaintances. His  reputation  for  immense  wealth  and 
considerable  talent — his  dashing,  easy  manner  —  his 
handsome  person  and  elaborate  style  of  dress,  attracted 
notice,  and  very  soon  threw  him  into  the  circle  of  all 
the  young  fashionables  of  St.  Werner's.  His  style  of 
life  cannot  be  better  described  than  by  saying  that  he 
afiected  the  fine  gentleman.  Hardly  a  day  had  pasg*ed 
during  which  he  had  not  been  at  some  large  break- 
fast or  wine  party,  or  formed  one  of  a  select  littte 
body  of  supping  aristocrats.  He  did  very  little  work^ 
and  pretended  to  do  none,  (for  Bruce  was  a  first-rate 
specimen  of  the  never-open-a-book  genus,)  although  at 
unexpected  hours  he  took  care  to  get  up  the  lecture- 
room  subjects  sufficiently  well  to  make  a  display  when 
he  was  put  on.  Even  in  this  he  was  unsuccessful,  for 
scholarship  cannot  be  acquired  per  saltum,  and  Mr. 
Serjeant,  the  lecturer  on  his  side,  looked  on  him  with 
profound  contempt,  as  a  puppy  who  was  all  the  more 
offensive  from  pretending  to  some  knowledge.  He  told 
him  that  he  might  distinguish  himself  by  hard,  steady 
work,  but  would  never  do  so  without  infinitely  more 
|,ains  than  he  took  the  trouble  to  apply.     His  quiet 

8 


86  FORTUNfE    FILIUS. 

and  caustic  strictures,  artd  tlie  easy  sarcasm  with  (vhic'i 
ho  would  allow  Bruce  to  flourish  his  way  through  a 
passage,  and  then  go  through  it  himself,  pointing  out 
how  utterly  Bruce  ha:l  "hopped  with  airy  and  fastidious 
levity"  above  all  the  nicer  shades  of  meaning,  and 
slurred  over  his  ignorance  of  a  difficulty  by  some  piece 
of  sonorous  nonsense,  made  him  peculiarly  the  object 
of  the  young  man's  disgust.  But  though  Mr.  Serjeant 
wounded  his  vanity,  the  irony  of  "a  musty  old  don," 
as  Bruce  contemptuously  called  him,  was  amply  atoned 
for  by  the  compliments  of  the  fast  young  admirers 
whom  Bruce  soon  gathered  round  him,  and  some  of 
whom  were  always  to  be  found  after  hall  time  sipping 
his  claret  or  lounging  in  his  gorgeous  rooms.  To  them 
Bruce's  genius  was  incontestably  proved  by  the  fault- 
less evenness  with  which  he  parted  his  hair  behind,  the 
dapperness  of  his  boots,  and  the  merit  of  his  spotless 
shirts. 

Sir  Rollo  Bruce,  Vyvyan's  father,  was  a  man  of  no 
particular  family,  who  had  been  knighted  on  a  deputa- 
tion, and  contrived  to  glitter  in  the  most  splendid  cir- 
cles of  London  society.  His  magnificent  entertain- 
ments, his  exquisite  appointments,  his  apparently 
fabulous  resources,  were  a  sufficient  passport  into  the 
saloons  of  dukes ;  and  although  ostensibly  Sir  Rollo 
had  nothing  to  live  on  but  his  salary  as  the  chairman 
of  a  bank,  nobody  who  had  the  entree  of  his  house 
cared  particularly  to  inquire  into  the  sources  of  his 
wealth.  Vyvyan  imitated  his  father  in  his  expensive 
tastes,  and  cultivated,  with  vulgar  assiduity,  the  society 
of  the  noblemen  at  his  college.  In  a  sliort  time  he 
knew  them  all,  and  all  of  them  had  been  at  bis  rooma 


SIZARS.  87 

except  a  young  Lord  Do  Vayne,  of  wliom  v,c  sliall 
hear  more  hereafter,  and  whose  retirhig  manners 
made  him  shrink  with  dislike  from  Bruce's  fawninij 
familiarity. 

The  sizars  at  St.  Werner's  do  not  dine  at  the  same 
hour  as  the  rest  of  the  undergraduates,  but  the  hour 
after,  and  their  dinner  consists  of  the  dishes  which 
have  previously  figured  on  the  fellows'  table.  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  time  may  come  when  the  authorities  of 
that  royal  foundation  will  see  reason  to  regret  so  un- 
necessary an  arrangement,  the  relic  of  a  long  obsolete, 
and  always  undesirable  system.  Many  of  St.  Werner's 
most  distinguished  alumni  have  themselves  sat  at  the 
sizars'  table,  and  if  any  of  them  were  blessed  or  cursed 
with  sensitive  dispositions,  they  will  not  be  dead  to  the 
justice  of  these  remarks.  The  sizars  are,  by  birth  and 
education,  invariably,  so  far  as  I  know",  the  sons  of 
gentlemen,  and  perhaps  most  often  of  clergymen  whose 
means  prevent  them  from  bearing  unassisted  the  heavy 
burden  of  university  expenses.  After  a  short  time 
many  of  these  sizars  become  scholars,  and  eventually  a 
large  number  of  them  win  for  themselves  the  honors 
of  a  fellowship.  Why  put  on  these  young  students  a 
gratuitous  indignity  ?  why  subject  them  to  the  unpleas- 
ant remarks  which  some  are  quite  coarse  enough  to 
make  on  the  subject  ?  The  authorities  of  St.  Werner's 
are  full  of  real  courtesy  and  kindness,  and  that  the 
arrangement  is  not  intended  as  an  indignity  I  am  well 
dT^are :  it  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  accidental  fragment  of 
in  obsolete  period — a  period  when  scholars  dined  on 
'a  penny  piece  of  beef,"  and  slept  two  or  three  in  a 
room  at  the  foot  of  the  fellows'  beds.     All  honor  to 


88  PER    ASPERA    AD    ASTRA. 

St.  Werner's ;  all  honor  to  the  great,  and  the  wise, 
and  the  leai-ned,  and  the  noble  whom  she  has  sent  forth 
into  all  lands ;  all  honor  to  the  bravery  and  the  truth- 
fulness of  her  sons  ;  all  honor  to  the  profound  scholars, 
and  able  teachers,  and  eloquent  orators  who  preside  at 
her  councils  ;  she  is  a  queen  of  colleges,  and  may  wield 
her  scepter  with  a  strong  hand  and  a  proud.  But  are 
there  not  some  among  her  subjects  who  are  deaf  to  the 
eounds  of  calm  advice  ? — some  who  are  so  blind  as 
to  love  her  faults  and  prop  up  her  abuses  ? — some  who 
daub  her  walls  with  the  untempered  mortar  of  their 
blind  prejudice,  and  treat  every  one  as  an  enemy  who 
would  aid  in  removing  here  and  there  a  bent  pillar,  and 
here  and  there  a  crumbling  stone  ?* 

And  now  let  all  defenders  of  present  institutions, 
however  bad  they  may  be — let  all  violent  supporters  of 
their  old  mumpsimus  against  any  new  sumpsimus  what- 
ever, listen  to  a  conversation  among  some  undergrad- 
uates. It  may  convince  them,  or  it  may  not — I  cannot 
tell ;  but  I  know  that  it  had  a  powerful  influence  on  me. 

Bruce  was  standing  in  the  butteries,  where  he  had 
just  been  joined  by  Lord  Fitzurse  and  Sir  John  D' Acres, 
who  by  virtue  of  their  titles  —  certainly  not  by  any 
other  virtue — sat  among  reverend  professors  and  learned 
doctors  at  the  high  table,  far  removed  from  the  herd 
of  common  undergraduates.  With  the  three  were  Mr, 
Boodle  and  Mr.  Tulk,  (the  "Mister"  is  given  them 
in  the  college  lists  out  of  respect  for  the  long  pursea 


*  These  words  were  written  some  time  ago.  I  trust  that  since 
then  all  cai.fes  of  offense,  if  they  ever  existed,  have  Icnj;  beej 
forgiven  and  forgotten. 


FELLOW-COMMONERS.  89 

wrhich  have  purchased  them  the  privilege  of  fellow-com- 
moners or  ^aXavTtoyewaidi,)  who  enjoyed  the  same  envi- 
able distinction  and  happy  privilege.  By  the  screens 
were  four  or  five  sizars ;  a  few  more  were  scattered 
about  in  the  passage,  waiting,  while  the  servants  hur- 
riedly placed  the  dishes  on  the  table  set  apart  for  them; 
and  Julian  was  chatting  to  Lillyston,  who  chanced  at 
the  moment  to  have  been  passing  by. 

"Who  is  that  table  for?"  asked  D'Acres,  pointing 
through  the  open  door  of  the  hall. 

"Oh,  that's  for  the  sizars,"  tittered  the  feeble- 
minded Boodle,  who  tittered  at  everything. 

*"  S-s-sizars  !"  stammered  Lord  Fitzurse.     "  What's 
that  mean  ?     Are  they  v-v-very  big  f-f-fellows  ?" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  said  Bruce.  "No;  they're  sons 
of  gyps  and  that  kind  of  thing,  who  feed  on  the  semese 
fragments  of  the  high  table." 

"  They  must  be  g-g- ghouls  !"  said  his  lordship, 
shudderingly. 

"Hush!"  said  D'Acres,  who  was  a  thorough  gen- 
tleman, "some  of  the  sizars  may  be  here;"  and  he 
dropped  Bruce's  ai'm. 

"Pooh!  they'll  feel  flattered,"  said  Bruce,  carelessly, 
as  D'Acres  walked  off. 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Julian,  striding  indignantly  forward, 
for  the  conversation  was  so  loud  that  he  had  heard 
every  word  of  it.  "  Flattered  to  be  the  butt  for  the  in- 
solence of  puppyism  and  every  fool  who  is  coarse  enough 
to  insult  them  publicly." 

"Who  the  d-d-d-deuce  are  you  ?"  said  Lord  Fitzurse; 
'*for  you're  coming  it  r-r-rather  strong." 

"Who  is  he?"  said  Lillyston,  breaking  in.  "youi 

8* 


J^O  LORD    DE    VAYNE. 

equal,  sir,  in  birth,  as  he  is  your  superior  in  intellect, 
and  in  every  moral  quality.  Gentlemen,"  he  continued, 
"let  me  just  Avarn  you  how  you  have  the  impertinence 
to  talk  in  this  way  again." 

"Warn  us!"  said  Bruce,  trying  to  hide  under  bra- 
vado his  crest-fallen  temper;  "why,  what'll  you  do  if 
we  choose  to  continue  V 

"  Make  a  few  counter-remarks  to  begin  with,  Bruce, 
on  parasites  and  parvenus,  tuft-hunting  freshmen  and 
the  tenth  transmitters  of  a  foolish  face,"  retorted  Lilly- 
Bton,  glowing  with  honest  indignation. 

"  And  turn  you  out  of  the  butteries  by  the  shoul- 
ders," said  a  strong  undergraduate,  who  had  chanced 
to  be  a  witness  of  the  scene.  "  A  somewhat  boyish 
proceeding,  perhaps,  but  exactly  suited  to  some  capa- 
cities." 

Bruce  and  his  friends,  seeing  that  they  were  begin- 
ning to  have  the  worst  of  it,  thought  it  about  time  to 
swatyger  off,  and  for  the  future  learnt  to  confine  their 
remarks  to  a  more  exclusive  circle. 

There  had  been  another  silent  spectator  of  the  scene 
in  the  person  of  Lord  De  Vayne.  Pie  was  a  young 
viscount  whose  estate  bordered  on  the  grounds  of  Lon- 
stead  Abbey,  and  he  had  known  Julian  since  both  of 
them  were  little  boys.  He  had  been  entirely  educated 
at  home  with  an  excellent  tutor,  who  had  filled  hia 
mind  with  all  wise  and  generous  sentiments ;  but  his 
widowed  mother  lived  in  such  comjilete  seclusion  that 
he  had  rarely  entered  the  society  of  any  of  his  own 
dge,  and  was  consequently  timid  and  bashful.  Meeting 
sometimes  with  Julian,  he  had  conceived  a  warm  ad- 
miration for  his  genius  and  character,  and  at  one  time 


JULIAN'S    VISIT.  91 

had  earnestly  wished  to  join  him  at  Harton.  But  hia 
mother  was  so  distressed  at  the  proposition  that  he  at 
once  abandoned  it,  while  he  eagerly  looked  forward  to 
the  tirae  when  he  should  meet  his  friend  at  St.  Wer- 
ner's, on  the  books  of  which  college  lie  had  entered  his 
name  partly  for  this  very  reason.  He  had  not  been  ar 
undergraduate  many  days  before  he  called  on  Julian, 
who  had  received  him  indeed  very  kindly,  but  who 
seemed  rather  shy  of  being  much  in  his  company  for 
fear  of  the  remarks  which  he  had  not  yet  learnt  entirely 
to  disregard.  This  was  a  great  source  of  vexation  to 
De  Vayne,  though  the  reason  of  it  was  partly  explained 
after  the  remarks  which  he  had  just  overheard. 

"  Home,"  he  whispered,  "  I  wish  you'd  come  into  my 
rooms  after  hall,  I  should  so  much  like  to  have  a  talk. 
Do,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  that  Julian  hesitated,  "  I  assure 
you  I  have  felt  quite  lonely  here." 

Accordingly,  after  hall,  Julian  strolled  into  War- 
wick's Court,  and  found  his  vray  to  Lord  De  Vayne's 
rooms. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  sec  you,  Julian,  at  last.  As  I 
have  told  you,"  he  said,  with  a  glistening  eye,  "I  have 
been  very  lonely.  I  have  never  left  home  before,  and 
have  made  no  friend  here  as  yet;"  and  he  heaved  a 
deep  sigh.  • 

Julian  felt  his  heart  full  of  friendliness  for  the  gentle 
boy  whose  total  inexperience  made  him  seem  younger 
than  ho  really  was.  He  glanced  round  the  rooms ; 
they  were  richly  furnished,  but  full  of  memorials  oi 
home,  that  gave  them  a  melancholy  aspect.  Over  the 
fire-place  was  a  water-color  likeness  of  his  ladj-mo- 
tber  in  her  widow's  weeds,  and  on  the  opposite  side  of 


92  LORD  OF  LEISURE. 

the  room  another  picture  of  a  beautiful  young  chihl — De 
Vayne's  only  brother,  who  had  died  in  infancy.  The 
handsomely  bound  books  on  the  shelves  had  been  trans 
ferred  from  their  well-known  places  in  the  library  of 
Uther  Hall,  and  the  regal  antlers  which  were  fastened 
over  the  door  had  once  graced  the  dining-room.  Thou- 
Bands  would  have  envied  De  Vayne's  position ;  but  he 
had  caught  the  shadow  of  his  mother's  sadness;  his 
relations  were  few  ;  at  St.  Werner's  as  yet  he  had  found 
none  to  lean  upon,  and  he  felt  unhappy  and  alone. 

"I  was  so  ashamed,  Julian,"  he  said,  "so  utterly 
and  unspeakably  ashamed  to  hear  the  rudeness  of  these 
men  as  we  came  out  of  hall.  I'm  afraid  you  must 
have  felt  deeply  hurt." 

"  Yes,  for  the  moment ;  but  I'm  sorry  that  I  took 
even  a  moment's  notice  of  it.  Why  should  one  be 
ruffled  because  others  are  unfeeling  and  impertinent  ? 
it  is  their  misfortune,  not  ours." 

"  But  why  did  you  come  up  as  a  sizar,  Julian  ?  Surely 
with  Lonstead  Abbey  as  youi  inheritance " 

"  No,"  said  Julian,  with  a  smile  ;  "  I  am  lord  of  my 
leisure,  and  no  land  beside." 

"  Really  !  I  had  always  looked  on  you  as  a  future 
neighbor  and  helper." 

He  was  too  delicate  to  make  any  inquiries  on  the 
subject :  but  while  a  bright  airy  vision  rose  for  an  instant 
before  Julian's  fancy,  and  then  died  away,  his  friend 
said,  with  ingenuous  embarrassment, — 

"  You  know.  Home,  I  am  very  rich.  In  truth,  1 
have  far  more  money  than  I  know  what  to  do  with 
It  only  troubles  me.     I  wish " 

"Oh   dear  no!"  said  Julian,  hastily;    "I  got  the 


SUNDAY  AT  CAMFORr.  93 

Newry  scholarship,  you  know,  at  Ilarton,  and  I  really 
need  no  assistance  whatever." 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  offended  you ;  how  unlucky  I  am !" 
said  De  Vayne,  blushing. 

"Not  a  whit,  De  Vayne  ;  I  know  your  kind  heart." 

"  Well,  do  let  me  see  something  of  you.  Won't  you 
come  a  walk,  sometimes,  or  let  me  come  in  of  an  even- 
ing when  you're  taking  tea,  and  not  at  work  ?" 

"Do,"  said  Julian;  and  they  agreed  to  meet  at  his 
rooms  on  the  following  Sunday  evening. 

Sunday  at  Camford  was  a  happy  day  for  Julian 
Home.  It  was  a  day  of  perfect  leisure  and  rest ;  the 
time  not  spent  at  church  or  in  the  society  of  others,  he 
generally  occupied  in  taking  a  longer  walk  than  usual, 
or  in  the  luxuries  of  solemn  and  quiet  thought.  But 
the  greatest  enjoyment  was  to  revel  freely  in  books,  and 
devote  himself,  unrestrained,  to  the  gorgeous  scenes  of 
poetry,  or  the  passionate  pages  of  eloquent  men ;  on 
that  day  he  drank  deeply  of  pure  streams  that  re- 
freshed hhn  for  his  weekly  work ;  nor  did  he  forget 
some  hour  of  commune,  in  the  secrecy  of  his  chamber 
and  the  silence  of  his  heart,  with  that  God  and  Father 
in  whom  alone  he  trusted,  and  to  whom  alone  he  looked 
for  deliverance  from  difficulty  and  guidance  under 
temptation.  Of  all  hours  his  happiest  and  strongest 
were  those  in  which  he  was  alone — alone,  except  for  a 
heavenly  presence,  sitting  at  the  feet  of  a  friend,  and 
looking  face  to  face  upon  himself. 

He  had  been  reading  Wordsworth  since  hall  time, 
when  the  ringing  of  the  chapel  bell  summoned  him  to 
put.  on  his  surplice,  and  walk  quietly  down  to  chapel 
As  there  was  plenty  of  time,  he  took  a  stroll  or  twc 


94  THE  SCORN  OF  SCORN. 

across  the  court,  before  going  in.  While  doing  so,  he 
met  De  Vayne,  and  in  his  company  suddenly  found  him- 
self vis-a-vis  with  his  old  eneniy  Brogten. 

"Hem!"  whispered  Brogten  to  his  companion,  "the 
Bizars  are  getting  on.  A  sizar  and  a  viscount  arm  in 
arm  I 

Julian  only  heard  enough  of  this  sentence  to  be  aware 
that  it  was  highly  insolent ;  and  the  flush  on  De  Vayne's 
cheek  showed  that  he  too  had  caught  something  of  its 
meaning. 

"  Never  mind  that  boor's  rudeness,"  he  said.  "  I  feel 
more  than  honored  to  be  in  the  sizar's  company.  How 
admirably  quiet  you  are,  Julian,  under  such  conduct !" 

"I  try  to  be;  not  always  with  success,  though,"  he 
answered,  as  his  breast  swelled,  and  his  lip  quivered 
with  indignation. 

"'Scorn  ! — to  be  scorned  by  one  that  I  scora: 
Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 
Is  that  a  matter  to  cause  regret  ?' — 

Stop  !  let's  come  into  chapel." 

They  went  into  chapel  together.  De  Vayne  walked 
into  the  noblemen's  seats ;  and  Julian,  hot  and  angry, 
and  Avith  the  words,  "  Scorn  ! — to  be  scorned  by  one 
that  I  scorn,"  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  strode  up  the 
whole  length  of  the  chapel  to  the  obscure  corner  set 
apart — is  it  not  very  needlessly  set  apart  ? — for  the 
sizars'  use. 

St.  Werner's  chapel  on  a  Sunday  evening  is  a  moving 
sight.  Five  hundred  men  in  surplices  thronging  the 
chapel  from  end  to  end — the  very  flower  of  EnglisJ: 
youth,  in  manly  beauty,  in  strength,  in  race,  in  courage 


OUR  FATHER.  95 

in  mind — all  kneeling  side  by  side,  bound  together  in 
a  common  bond  of  union  by  the  grand  historic  associa* 
tions  of  that  noble  place — all  mingling  their  voices  to- 
gether with  the  trebles  of  the  choir  and  the  thunder- 
music  of  the  organ.  This  is  a  spectacle  not  often 
equaled ;  and  to  take  a  share  in  it  as  one  for  whose 
Bake,  in  part,  it  has  been  established,  is  a  privilege  not 
to  be  forgotten.  The  music,  the  devotion,  the  spirit  of 
the  place,  smoothed  the  swelling  thoughts  of  Julian's 
troubled  heart.  "Are  we  not  all  brethren  ?  Hath  not 
one  Father  begotten  us  ?"  Such  began  to  be  the  bur- 
den of  his  thoughts,  rather  than  the  old  "  Scorn  ! — to 
be  scorned  by  one  that  I  scorn."  And  when  the  glo- 
rious tones  of  the  anthem  ceased,  and  the  calm  steady 
voice  of  the  chaplain  was  heard  alone,  uttering  in  the 
sudden  hush  the  grand  overture  to  the  noble  prayer — 

"  0  Lord,  our  heavenly  Father,  high  and  7nighty, 
King  of  kings,  Lord  of  lords,  the  only  Ruler  of  i^rinees, 
who  dost  from  thy  throne  behold  all  the  dwellers  upon 
earth, — 

then  the  last  demon  of  wrath  was  exorcised,  and 
Julian  thought  to  himself — "  No ;  from  henceforth  I 
scorn  no  one,  and  am  indifferent  alike  to  the  proud 
man's  scorn  and  the  base  man's  sneer." 

The  two  incidents  that  we  have  narrated  made 
Julian  fear  that  his  position  as  a  sizar  would  be  one 
of  continual  annoyance.  He  afterwards  gratefully 
acknowledged  that  in  such  a  supposition  he  was  quite 
mistaken.  Never  again  while  he  remained  a  sizar  did 
he  hear  the  slightest  unkind  allusions  to  the  circum- 


96  ST.  AfERNER'S. 

Stance,  and  but  for  the  external  regulations  imposed 
by  the  college,  he  might  even  have  forgotten  the  fact. 
Those  regulations,  especially  the  hall  arrangements, 
were  indeed  sufficiently  disagreeable  at  times.  It  could 
not  be  pleasant  to  dine  in  a  hall  which  had  just  been 
left  by  hundreds  of  men,  and  to  make  the  meal  amid 
the  prospect  of  slovenly  servants  employed  in  the 
emptying  of  wineglasses  and  the  ligurrition  of  dishes, 
sometimes  even  in  passages  of  coquetry  or  noisy  civil- 
ities, on  the  interchange  of  which  the  presence  of 
these  undergraduates  seemed  to  impose  but  little  check. 
These  things  may  be  better  now,  and  in  spite  of  them 
Julian  felt  hearty  reason  to  be  grateful  for  the  real 
kindness  of  the  St.  Werner's  authorities.  In  other  re- 
spects he  found  that  the  fact  of  his  being  a  sizar  made 
no  sort  of  difference  in  his  position ;  he  found  that  the 
majority  of  men  either  knew  or  cared  nothing  about  it, 
and  sought  his  society  on  terms  of  the  most  unques- 
tioned equality,  for  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  which  hia 
company  afforded  them,  and  the  thoughts  which  it 
enabled  them  to  ventilate  or  interchange. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

STUDY     AND     IDLENESS. 

^Then  what  golden  hours  were  for  us, 

While  we  sate  together  there ! 

How  the  white  vests  of  the  chorus 

Seemed  to  wave  up  a  live  air ! 
How  the  cothurns  trod  majestic, 

Down  the  deep  iambic  lines, 
And  the  rolling  anapoestic 

Curled  like  vapor  over  shrines  !" 

E.  Barrett  Browning- 

The  incentives  which  lead  young  men  to  work  are 
as  various  as  the  influences  which  tend  to  make  them 
idle.  One  toils  on,  however  hopelessly,  from  a  sense 
of  duty,  from  a  desire  to  please  his  parents,  and  satisfy 
the  requirements  of  the  place ;  another  because  he  has 
been  well  trained  into  habits  of  work,  aud  has  a  notion 
of  educatino;  the  mind ;  a  third  because  he  has  set  his 
heart  on  a  fellowship  ;  a  fourth,  because  he  is  intensely 
ambitious,  and  looks  on  a  good  degree  as  the  stepping- 
stone  to  literary  or  political  honors.  The  fewest  per- 
haps pursue  learning  for  her  own  sake,  and  study  out 
of  a  simple  eagerness  to  know  what  may  be  known,  as 
the  best  means  of  cultivating  their  intellectual  powers 
for  the  attainment  of  at  least  a  personal  solution  of 
those  great  problems,  the  existence  of  which  they  have 
already  begun  to  realize.     But  of  this  rare  class  waa 

9  (97) 


98  THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS. 

Julian  Home.  He  studied  with  an  ardor  and  a  passion 
before  which  difficulties  vanished,  and  in  consequence 
of  which  he  seemed  to  progress  not  the  less  surely, 
because  it  was  with  great  strides.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  Julian  found  himself  entirely  alone  in  the 
great  wide  realm  of  literature — alone,  to  wander  at  his 
own  will,  almost  without  a  guide.  And  joyously  did 
that  brave  young  spirit  pursue  its  way — now  resting 
in  some  fragrant  glen,  and  by  some  fountain  mirror, 
where  the  boughs  which  bent  over  him  were  bright 
with  blossom  and  rich  with  fruit — now  plunging  into 
some  deep  thicket,  where  at  every  step  he  had  to  push 
aside  the  heavy  branches  and  tangled  weeds — and  now 
climbing  with  toilful  progress  some  steep  and  rocky 
hill,  on  whose  summit,  hardly  attained,  he  could  rest  at 
last,  and  gaze  back  over  perils  surmounted  and  preci- 
pices passed,  and  mark  the  thunder  rolling  over  the 
valleys,  or  gaze  on  kingdoms  full  of  peace  and  beauty, 
slumbering  in  the  broad  sunshine  beneath  his  feet. 

Julian  read  for  the  sake  of  knowledge,  and  because 
he  intensely  enjoyed  the  great  authors,  whose  thoughts 
he  studied.  He  had  read  parts  of  Homer,  parts  of 
Thucydides,  parts  of  Tacitus,  parts  of  the  tragedians, 
at  school,  but  now  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  study  a 
great  author  entire,  and  as  a  w^hole.  Never  before  did 
he  fully  appreciate  the  "thunderous  lilt"  of  Greek  epic, 
the  touching  and  voluptuous  tenderness  of  Latin  elegy, 
the  regal  pomp  of  history,  the  gorgeous  and  philosophic 
mystery  of  the  old  dramatic  fables.  Never  before  had 
he  learnt  to  gaze  on  "  the  bright  countenance  of  truth, 
in  the  mild  and  dewy  air  of  delightful  studies."  Those 
who  decry  classical  education,  do  so  from  inexperience 


BRIGHT    HOURS.  99 

of  its  real  character  and  value,  and  can  hardly  conceive 
the  sense  of  strength  and  freedom  which  a  young  and 
ingenuous  intellect  acquires  in  all  literature,  and  in  all 
thought,  by  the  laborious  and  successful  endeavor  to 
enter  into  that  noble  heritage  which  has  been  left  us 
by  the  wisdoin  of  bygone  generations.  Those  hours 
were  the  happiest  of  Julian's  life ;  often  would  he  be 
beguiled  by  his  studies  into  the  "wee  small"  hours  of 
night ;  and  in  the  grand  company  of  eloquent  men  and 
profound  philosophers,  he  would  forget  everything  in 
the  sense  of  intellectual  advance.  Then  first  be  began 
to  understand  Milton's  noble  exclamation — 

"How  charming  is  divine  philosophy! 
Not  harsh  and  rugged  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute, 
And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets, 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns." 

He  studied  accurately,  yet  with  appreciation ;  some- 
times the  two  ways  of  study  are  not  combined,  and 
while  one  man  will  be  content  with  a  cold  and  barren 
estimate  of  ys^  and  -ou\  derived  from  wading  through 
the  unutterable  tedium  of  interminable  German  notes, 
of  which  the  last  always  contradicted  all  the  rest; 
another  will  content  himself  with  eviscerating  the  gen- 
eral meaning  of  a  passage,  without  any  attempt  to 
feel  the  finer  pulses  of  emotion,  or  discriminate  the 
nicer  shades  of  thought.  Eschewing  commentators  as 
much  as  he  could,  Julian  would  first  carefully  go  over 
a  long  passage,  solely  with  a  view  to  the  clear  com- 
prehension of  the  author's  language,  and  would  then 
reread  the  whole  for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  and  ap- 


100  CLASSICS. 

preciatiLg  the  thoughts  which  the  words  enshrined  j 
and  finally,  when  he  had  finished  a  book  or  a  poem, 
wouhl  run  through  it  again  as  a  whole,  with  all  the 
glow  and  enthusiasm  of  a  perfect  comprehension. 

Sometimes  Kennedy,  or  Owen,  or  Lord  De  Vayne 
would  read  with  him.  This  was  always  in  lighter  and 
easier  authors,  read  chiefly  for  practice,  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  poetry  or  the  story  which  lent  them  their 
attraction.  It  was  necessary  to  pursue  in  solitude  all 
the  severer  paths  of  study ;  but  he  found  these  evenings, 
spent  at  once  in  society  and  yet  over  books,  full  both 
of  profit  and  enjoyment.  Lillyston,  although  not  a 
first-rate  classic,  often  formed  one  of  the  party  ;  Owen 
and  Julian  contributed  the  requisite  scholarship  and 
the  accurate  knowledge,  while  Lillyston  and  De  Vayne 
would  often  throw  out  some  literary  illustration  or  his- 
torical parallel,  and  Kennedy  gave  life  and  brightness 
to  them  all,  by  the  flow  and  sparkle  of  his  gayety  and 
wit.  But  it  must  be  admitted  that  Kennedy  was  the 
least  studious  element  in  the  party,  and  was  too  often 
the  cause  of  digressions  and  conversations  which  led 
them  to  abandon  altogether  the  immediate  object  of 
their  evening's  work. 

Kennedy  had  a  tendency  to  idleness,  which  was  devel- 
oped by  the  freedom  with  which  he  plunged  into  society 
of  all  kinds.  His  company  was  so  agreeable,  and  hig 
bright  young  face  was  so  happy  an  addition  to  all  par- 
ties, that  he  was  in  a  round  of  constant  engagements — 
breakfast  parties,  wines,  supper  parties,  and  dinners — 
that  encroached  far  too  much  on  the  hours  of  work. 
At  school,  the  perpetual  examinations  kept  alive  an 
\:mulous  spirit,  which  counteracted  his  fondness  for  men' 


WASTE    OF    TIME.  lOi 

tal  vagrancy;  but  at  college  the  examinations — at  least 
those  of  any  importance — are  tew  3;r(d  lav  between  ;  and 
he  always  flattered  himself  thai  he  meant  soon'tormakc 
up  for  lost  time;  for  three  yeai^  loojc^an.imjnt^nse  pe- 
riod to  a  young  man  at  the  entrance  of  his  university 
career.  It  was  nearly  as  necessary  'even  in  a  pecuni- 
ary point  of  view)  for  him  as  for  Julian  to  make  the 
best  use  of  his  time ;  for  although  he  was  an  only  son, 
he  was  not  destined  to  inherit  a  fortune  sufficient  for 
his  support. 

"Just  look  at  these  cards,"  he  said  to  Julian  one 
day;  "there  is  not  one  of  them  which  hasn't  an  invi- 
tation scribbled  on  it.  These  engagements  really  leave 
one  no  time  for  work.  What  a  bore  it  is  !  how  do  you 
manage  to  escape  them?" 

"  Well — first,  I  havn't  such  a  large  acquaintance  as 
you ;  that  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference.  But,  be- 
sides, I  make  a  point  of  leaving  breakfast  parties  at 
ten,  and  wines  at  chapel  time — so  that  I  really  don't 
find  them  any  serious  hinderance.  No  hinderance,  I 
mean,  in  comparison  with  the  delight  and  profit  of  the 
society  itself." 

"I  wish  I  could  make  the  same  resolution,"  said 
Kennedy ;  "  but  the  fact  is,  I  find  company  so 
thoroughly  amusing,  that  I  am  always  tempted  to 
stay." 

"  But  why  not  decline,  sometimes  ?" 

"  1  don't  know — it  looks  uncivil.  Here,  which  of 
these  shall  I  cut?"  he  said,  tossing  three  or  four  notes 
and  cards  to  Julian. 

"This,  for  one,"  said  Julian,  as  he  read  the  first:— 

9* 


102  CARDS. 

"  Dear  Kennedy — Come  to  supper  and  cards  at  ten 
Bruce' wants  to  be  intvodnced  to  you.     Yours, 

-        •   ■       •  "0.  Brogten.'  " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  shall.  I  don't  like  that  fellow 
Brogten,  who  is  always  thrusting  himself  in  my  way," 
said  Kennedy.  "  Heigh  ho  !"  and  Kennedy  leant  hia 
head  on  his  arm,  and  fell  into  a  reverie,  thinking  that, 
after  all,  his  three  years  at  college  might  be  over  almost 
before  he  was  aware  of  how  much  time  he  lost. 

"I  hope  you  don't  play  cards  much,"  said  Julian. 

"Why?  I  hear  Hazlet  has  been  denouncing  them  in 
hall  with  unctuous  fervor,  and  I  do  think  it  was  that 
which  led  me  to  join  in  a  game  which  was  instantly  pro- 
posed by  some  of  the  men  who  sat  near." 

"I  don't  say  that  there's  anything  diabolical,"  said 
Julian,  smiling,  "in  paint  and  pasteboard,  or  that  I 
should  have  the  least  objection  to  play  them  myself,  if 
I  wanted  amusement ;  but  I  think  them — except  very 
occasionally,  and  in  moderation — a  waste  of  time  ;  and 
if  you  play  for  money,  I  don't  think  it  does  you  any 
good." 

"Well,  I've  never  played  for  money  yet.  By-the- 
by,  do  you  know  Bruce  ?  he  has  the  character  and 
manner  of  a  very  gentlemanly  fellow  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know  him,"  said  Julian,  who  made  a  point 
of  holding  his  tongue  about  a  man  when  he  had  nothing 
favorable  to  say. 

"  Oh,  ay,  I  forgot ;  of  course ;  he's  a  Hartonian. 
But  didn't  you  think  him  gentlemanly?" 

"  He  has  an  easy  manner,  and  is  accustomed  to  good 


ADMONISHED.  108 


'J 


society,  which  is   usually  all  that    is    intended  by  the 
word,"  said  Julian. 

"  I  think  T  must  go  just  this  one  evening.  I  like  to 
see  a  variety  of  men ;  one  learns  something  from  it." 

Kennedy  went.  The  supper  took  place  in  Brogtcn's 
rooms,  and  the  party  then  adjourned  to  Bruce's,  where 
they  immediately  began  a  game  at  whist  for  half  a- 
crown  points,  and  then  "unlimited  loo."  Kennedy 
was  induced  to  play,  "just  to  see  what  it  was  like." 
As  the  game  proceeded,  he  became  more  and  more  ex- 
cited ;  the  others  were  accustomed  to  the  thing,  and  con- 
cealed their  eagerness  ;  but  Kennedy,  who  was  younger 
and  more  inexperienced  than  any  of  them,  threw  him-, 
self  into  the  game,  and  drank  heedlessly  of  the  wine 
that  freely  circulated.  Surely,  if  guardian  spirits  attend 
the  footsteps  of  youth,  one  angel  must  have  wept  that 
evening  "tears  such  as  angels  weep"  to  see  him  with 
his  flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes,  eagerly  seizing  the 
sums  he  won,  or,  with  clenched  hand  and  contracted 
brow,  anxiously  awaiting  the  result  of  some  adverse 
turn  in  the  chances  of  the  game.  I  remember  once  to 
have  accidentally  entered  a  scene  like  this,  in  going  to 
borrow  something  from  a  neighbor's  room  ;  and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  almost  tiger-like  eagerness  and  haggard 
anxiety  depicted  on  the  countenances  of  the  men  who 
were  playing  for  sums  far  too  extravagant  for  an  under- 
graduate's purse. 

How  Kennedy  got  home  he  never  knew,  but  next 
morning  he  awoke  headachy  and  feverish,  and  the  first 
thing  he  saw  on  his  table  was  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which 
was  written  "  Kennedy  admonished  by  the  senior  dean 
for  being  out  after  twelve  o'clock."      The  notice  an- 


i04  UNDER    THE    STARS. 

noyed  and  shamed  him.     He  lay  in  bed  till  late,  was 
absent  from  lecture,  and  got  up  to  an  unrelished  break 
fast,  at  which  he  was  disturbed  by  the  entrance  of  Bruce, 
to  congratulate  him   on  his  winnings  of  the  evening 
before. 

While  Bruce  was  talking  to  him,  Lillyston  also  strolled 
in,  on  his  way  from  lecture,  to  ask  what  had  kept  Ken- 
nedy away.  He  was  surprised  to  see  the  pale  and  weary 
louk  on  his  face,  and,  catching  sight  of  Bruce  seated  in 
the  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  he  merely  made  some  common- 
place remarks,  and  left  the  room.  But  he  met  Julian 
in  the  court,  and  told  him  that  Kennedy  didn't  seem 
to  be  well. 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Julian;  "he  supped  with 
Brogten,  and  then  went  to  play  cards  with  Bruce,  and 
I  hear  that  Bruce's  card  parties  are  not  very  steady 
proceedings." 

"  Can't  Ave  manage  to  keep  him  out  of  that  set, 
Julian?  it  will  be  the  ruin  of  his  reading." 

"  Ay,  and  worse,  Hugh.  But  what  can  one  say  ? 
It  will  hardly  do  to  read  homilies  to  one's  fellow-under- 
graduates." 

"  You  might  at  least  give  him  a  hint," 

"  I  will.  I  suppose  he'll  come  and  do  some  Eurip- 
ides to-night." 

He  did  come,  and  when  they  had  read  some  three 
hundred  lines,  and  the  rest  were  separating,  he  pro- 
posed to  Julian  a  turn  in  the  great  court. 

The  stars  were  crowding  in  their  bright  myriads, 
and  the  clear  silvery  moonlight  bathed  the  court, 
except  where  the  hall  and  chapel  flung  fantastic  and 
mysterious    shadows    across    the    green    smooth-mown 


PRfi:SENTlMENTS.  lOf) 

lawns  of  tlie  quadrangle.  The  soft  light,  the  cool 
ovhilarating  night  air  were  provocative  of  thought,  anrl 
they  walked  up  and  down  for  a  time  in  silence. 

Many  thoughts  were  evidently  working  in  Ken- 
nedy's mind,  and  they  did  not  all  seem  to  be  bright 
or  beautiful  as  the  thoughts  of  youth  should  be. 
Julian's  brain  was  busy,  too ;  and  as  they  paced  up 
and  down,  arm  and  arm,  the  many-colored  images  of 
hope  and  fancy  were  flitting  thick  and  fast  across 
his  vision.  He  was  thinking  of  his  own  future  and 
of  Kennedy's,  whom  he  was  beginning  to  love  as  a 
brother,  and  for  whose  moral  weakness  he  sometimes 
feared. 

"  Julian,"  said  Kennedy,  suddenly  breaking  the 
silence ;  "  were  you  ever  seized  by  an  uncontrollable, 
unaccountable,  irresistible  presentiment  of  coming  evil, 
— a  feeling  as  if  a  sudden  gulf  of  blackness  and  horror 
yawned  before  you — a  dreadful  something  haunting 
you,  you  knew  not  what,  but  only  knew  that  it  was 
there?" 

"  I  have  had  presentiments,  certainly;  though  hardly 
of  the  kind  you  describe." 

"  Well,  Julian,  I  have  such  a  presentiment  now, 
overshadowing  me  with  the  sense  of  guilt,  of  which 
I  was  never  guilty ;  as  though  it  were  the  shadow 
of  some  crime  committed  in  a  previous  state  of  ex- 
istence, forgotten  yet  unforgotten,  incurred  yet  un- 
avenged." 

"  Probably  the  mere  result  of  a  headache  this  morn- 
mg,  and  the  night  air  now,"  said  Julian,  smiling  at 
the  energetic  description,  yet  pained  by  the  intensity  of 
Kennedy's  tone  of  voice. 


106  A.    METEOR. 

"  Hush,  Julian  \  I  hate  all  that  stupid  materialism 
Depend  upon  it,  some  evil  thing  is  over  me.  I  wonder 
whether  crimes  of  the  future  can  throw  their  crimson 
shadow  back  over  the  past.  My  life,  thank  God,  haa 
been  an  innocent  one,  yet  now  I  feel  like  the  guiltiest 
thing  alive." 

"  One  oughtn't  to  yield  to  such  feelings,  or  to  be 
the  victim  of  a  heated  imagination,  Kennedy.  In  my 
own  case  at  least,  half  the  feelings  I  have  fancied  to 
be  presentiments  have  turned  out  false  in  the  end — ■ 
presentiments,  I  mean,  which  have  been  suggested,  as 
perhaps  this  has,  by  passing  circumstances." 

"God  grant  this  may  be  false!"  said  Kennedy; 
"  but  something  makes  me  feel  uneasy." 

"  It  will  be  a  lying  prophet,  if  you  so  determine, 
Kennedy.  The  only  enemy  who  has  real  power  to 
hurt  us  is  ourselves.  Why  should  you  be  agitated  by 
an  idle  forecast  of  uncertain  calamity?  Be  brave,  and 
honest,  and  pure,  and  God  will  be  with  you.  Don't 
be  surprised,"  continued  Julian,  "if  you've  heard  me 
say  the  same  words  before ;  they  were  my  father's 
dying  bequest  to  his  eldest  son." 

"Be   brave,  and   honest,  and    pure "   repeated 

Kennedy ;  "  yes,  you  must  be  right,  Julian.  Look, 
what  a  glorious  sky,  and  what  numberless  '  patines  of 
bright  gold !'  " 

Julian  looked  up,  and  at  that  m.oment  a  meteor  shot 
across  the  heaven,  plunging  as  though  from  the  galaxy 
into  the  darkness,  and,  after  the  white  and  dazzling  luster 
of  the  trail  had  disappeared,  seeming  to  leave  behmd 
the  glory  of  it  a  deeper  gloom.  It  gave  too  true  a 
type  of  many  a  young  man's  destiny. 


GOOD    NIGHTS.  107 

Kennedy  said  nothing,  but  although  it  is  not  the 
Camford  custom  to  shake  hands,  he  shook  Julian's 
hand  that  night  with  one  of  those  warm  and  loving 
grasps,  which  are  not  soon  forgotten.  And  each  walked 
slowly  back  to  his  own  room. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

THE     B  0  AT-R  AC  E. 

"  And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Between  the  willows." — In  Memoriam. 

The  banks  of  "silvery-winding  Iscam"  were  thronged 
with  men ;  between  the  hours  of  two  and  four  o'clock  the 
sculls  were  to  be  tried  for,  and  some  eight  hundred  of 
the  thousand  undergraduates  poured  out  of  their  col- 
leses  by  twos  and  threes  to  watch  the  result  from  the 
banks  on  each  side. 

The  first  and  second  guns  had  been  fired,  and  the 
scullers  in  their  boats,  each  some  ten  yards  apart  from 
the  other,  are  anxiously  waiting  the  firing  of  the  third, 
which  is  the  signal  for  starting.  That  strong  splen- 
did-looking young  man,  whose  arms  are  bared  to  the 
shoulder,  and  "  the  muscles  all  aripple  on  his  back," 
is  almost  quivering  with  anxious  expectation.  The 
very  instant  the  sound  of  the  gun  reaches  his  ear,  those 
oar-blades  will  flash  like  lightning  into  the  water,  and 
"smite  the  sounding  furrows"  with  marvelous  regu- 
larity and  speed.  He  is  the  favorite,  and  there  are 
some  heavy  bets  on  his  success ;  Bruce  and  Brogten 
*nd  Lord  Fitzurse  will  be  richer  or  poorer  by  some 
(108) 


ON    THE    BANKS.  lOil 

twenty  pounds  eacli  from  the  result  of  this  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

The  three  are  standing  together  on  the  towing-path 
opposite  that  little  inn  where  the  river  suddenly  makes 
a  wide  bend,  and  where,  if  tlie  rush  of  men  were  not 
certain  to  sweep  them  forward,  they  might  see  a  very 
considerable  piece  of  the  race.  But  directly  the  signal 
is  given,  and  the  boats  start,  everybody  will  run  im- 
petuously at  full  speed  along  the  banks  to  keep  up  with 
the  boats,  and  cheer  on  their  own  men,  and  it  will  be 
necessary  for  our  trio  to  make  the  best  possible  use  of 
their  legs,  before  the  living  cataract  pours  down  upon 
them.  Indeed,  they  would  not  have  been  on  the 
towing-path  at  all,  but  among  the  rather  questionable 
occupints  of  the  grass  plat  before  the  inn  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  were  it  not  for  their  desire  to  run 
along  with  the  boats,  and  inspirit  the  rowers  on  whom 
they  have  betted. 

But  what  is  this  ?  A  great  odious  slow-trailing 
barge  looms  into  sight,  nearly  as  broad  as  the  river 
itself,  black  as  the  ferruginous  ferryboat  of  Charon, 
and  slowly  dragged  down  the  stream  by  two  stout  cart 
horses,  beside  which  a  young  bargee  is  plodding  along 
in  stolid  independence. 

"  Hi,  hi !  you  clodhopper  there,  stop  that  infernal 
barge !"  shouted  Bruce,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  knowing 
that  if  the  barge  once  passed  the  winning  posts,  the 
race  would  be  utterly  spoilt. 

"  St-t-t-topp  there,  you  cl-1-lown,  w-w-will  you?" 
btuttered  Fitzurse,  more  incoherent  than  usual,  with 
indignation. 

10 


110  A    BARGEE. 

The  young  bargee  either  didn't  hear  these  apos- 
trophes, or  didn't  choose  to  attend  to  them  when  thej" 
were  urged  in  that  kind  of  way ;  and  besides  this,  a& 
the  men  were  entirely  concealed  from  his  view  by  the 
curve  of  the  river,  he  wasn't  aware  of  the  coming  race, 
and  therefore  saw  no  reason  to  obey  such  imperious 
mandates. 

"  rionfound  the  grimy  idiot !  doesn't  he  hear  ?"  said 
Bruce,  turning  red  and  pale  with  excitement  as  he 
thought  of  the  money  he  had  at  stake,  and  remembered 
that  the  skifF  on  which  all  his  hopes  lay  was  first  in 
ord'  r,  and  would  therefore  be  most  likely  to  suffer  by 
any  momentary  confusion.  "  Come,  Brogten,  let's  stop 
him  somehow  before  it's  too  late." 

'*  Let's  cut  the  scoundrel's  ropes,"  said  Brogten  be- 
tw<?'n  his  teeth ;  and  at  once  the  three  darted  forward 
at  full  speed,  at  the  very  instant  that  the  sharp  crack 
of  the  final  signal-gun  was  heard. 

It  so  happened  that  Julian  and  Lillyston  had  started 
rather  late  for  the  races,  and  had  come  up  with  the 
barge  just  as  it  had  first  neglected  the  summons  of 
Bruce  and  Fitzurse. 

"Come,  bargee,"  said  Lillyston,  good-humoredly, 
"  out  of  the  way  with  the  barge  as  quick  as  ever  you 
can  ;  there's  a  boat-race,  and  you'll  spoil  the  fun." 

"Oh,  it's  a  race,  be  it?"  said  the  man,  as  he  in- 
stantly helped  Lillyston  to  back  the  horses.  "  If 
them  young  jackanapes  had  only  toald  me,  'stead  of 
blusterin'  that  way " 

His  speech  was  interrupted  by  Bruce,  who,  with  hia 
i'riends,  had  instantly  sprang  at  the  ropes,  and  cut 
them  in   half  a   dozen  places,  while  the  great  heavy 


ONE    TO    THREE.  Ill 

horses,  frightened  out  of  their  propriety,  turned  tail 
and  bolted  away  at  a  terrifically  heavy  trot. 

"You  big  hulking  blackguard!"  roared  Brogten, 
who  had  been  the  first  to  use  his  knife,  "why  the 
devil  didn't  you  move  when  we  told  you?  What  busi- 
ness have  louts  like  you  to  come  blundering  up  the 
river  and  spoil  our  races?"  And  Fitzurse,  confident 
in  superior  numbers,  gave  emphasis  to  the  question  by 
knocking  off  the  man's  cap. 

The  bargee  was  a  strongly-built,  stupid,  healthy- 
looking  young  man,  of  some  twenty-thi-ee  years  old, 
who,  from  being  slow  of  passion  was  all  the  more 
terrible  when  aroused.  Not  finding  any  vent  for  his 
anger  in  words,  he  suddenly  seized  Bruce  (who  of  the 
three  stood  nearest  him)  by  the  collar  of  his  boating 
jersey,  shook  him  as  he  might  have  done  a  baby,  and 
almost  before  he  was  aware,  pitched  him  into  the  river. 
Instantly  swinging  round,  he  gave  Lord  Fitzurse  a  butt 
with  his  elbow,  which  sent  his  lordship  tottering  into 
the  ditch  on  the  other  side,  and  while  his  wrath  was 
still  blazing,  received  in  one  eye  a  blow  from  Brogten's 
strong  fist,  which  for  an  instant  made  him  reel. 

But  it  was  only  for  an  instant,  and  then  he  repaid 
Brogten  with  a  cuff  which  felled  him  to  the  ground. 
Brogten  was  mad  with  fui'y.  At  that  m.oment  the  men 
were  running  round  the  corner,  at  the  bend  of  the 
Iscam,  in  full  career,  and  hundreds  on  both  sides  of  the 
river  must  have  seen  him  sprawl  before  the  man's  blow. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  blind  with  rage,  lifted  the 
clasp-knife  with  which  he  had  cut  the  ropes.  A  second 
more,  and  it  would  have  been  buried  to  the  handle  in 
the  light  arm  which,  quick   as   lightning,  the   bargee 


112  BROGTEN. 

raised  to  sMeld  his  face,  when  Brogten's  arm  was  seized, 
from  behind  by  Lilljston,  who  wrested  the  knife  froir 
him,  and  pitched  it  into  the  river. 

Bro^ten  turned  round,  still  unconscious  of  what  he 
was  about.  Julian  stood  nearest  him,  and  he  thought 
it  was  Julian  who  had  disarmed  him.  Old  hatred  was 
suddenly  joined  to  outrageous  passion,  and,  clenching 
bis  fist,  he  struck  Julian  in  the  face.  Julian  started 
back  just  in  time  to  evade  the  full  force  of  the  blow, 
and,  fearing  a  second  attack,  suddenly  tripped  his 
aggressor  as  he  once  more  rushed  toward  him. 

But  now  the  full  tide  of  men  had  reached  the  spot : 
the  barge  had  drifted  helplessly  lengthwise  across  the 
stream,  and  an  angry  circle  closed  round  the  chief 
actors  in  the  scene  we  have  described,  while  a  hundred 
hasty  voices  demanded  what  was  the  row,  and  what 
the  bargee  meant  by  "  stopping  the  race  in  that  stupid 
way!"  Meanwhile  Bruce,  wet  and  muddy,  was  de- 
claiming on  one  side,  and  Fitzurse,  bruised  and  dirty, 
on  the  other,  was  stammering  his  uncomprehended 
oaths  ;  while  a  dozen  men  were  holding  Brogten,  who, 
foiled  a  second  time,  and  now  in  a  dreadfully  ungovern- 
able passion,  was  struggling  with  the  men  who  held  him, 
and  vowing  murder  against  Julian  and  the  bargee. 

It  was  no  time  for  deliberation,  nor  are  excited, 
hasty,  and  disappointed  boys  the  most  impartial  of 
jurors.  Julian  and  Lillyston  were  rapidly  explaining 
the  true  state  of  the  case  to  the  few  who  were  calm 
enough  to  listen  ;  but  all  that  appeared  to  most  of  the 
by-standers  was,  that  a  bargee  had  spoiled  the  event  of 
the  day,  and  assaulted  two  or  three  undergraduates.  A 
cry  arose  to  duck  the  fellow  in  the  muddiest  angle  of 


A  HUBBUB.  11  C 

the  Iscam,  and  twenty  hands  were  laid  on  his  shoulder 
to  drag  him  off  to  his  fate.  But  a  sense  of  injustice, 
joined  to  strength  and  passion,  are  all  but  irresistible 
when  their  opponents  are  but  half  in  earnest ;  and,  vio- 
lently exerting  his  formidable  muscles,  the  man  shook 
himself  free  with  a  determination,  agility,  and  pluck, 
which,  by  a  visible  logic,  showed  the  men  how  cruel  and 
cowardly  it  was  to  punish  him  before  they  knew  any- 
thing of  the  rights  of  the  case.  Lillyston's  voice,  too, 
began  to  be  loudly  heard,  and  several  dons  among  the 
crowd  exerted  themselves  \o  restore  order  out  of  the 
hubbub. 

There  is  nothing  like  a  touch  of  manliness.  A  feeble 
and  fussy  and  finicking  little  proctor,  who  happened  to 
be  on  the  bank,  Avas  pompously  endeavoring  to  assert 
his  dignity  and  make  himself  attended  to.  He  was 
just  beginning  to  get  indignant  at  the  laughing  con- 
tempt with  which  his  impotent  eflforts  were  received,  and 
was  asking  men  for  their  names  and  colleges,  in  a  futile 
sort  of  way,  when  a  tall  and  stately  tutor  in  the  crowd 
raised  his  voice  above  the  uproar,  and  said,  "  Silence, 
gentlemen,  if  you  please,  for  a  moment."  He  was  recog- 
nized and  respected,  and  the  men  made  room  for  him 
into  the  center  of  the  throng. 

"  Now,  my  man,  just  tell  us  what's  the  matter."  The 
man  was  beginning  to  tell  them  how  wantonly  his  ropes 
had  been  cut,  and  he  himself  insulted,  when  Bruce  broke 
in,  "  That's  a  lie,  you  beggar ;  we  asked  you  to  move, 
and  you  wouldn't.  I'll  have  you  in  prison  yet,  my  fine 
Fellow;  you'll  see." 

"And  if  I  don't  make  you  pay  for  them  ropes,  you 

10* 


il4  FAIR. 

young  pink-and-white  monkey,  my  name  ain't  Jem — 
that's  all." 

"Did  anybody  see  what  really  took  place?"  asked 
the  don,  cutting  short  the  altercation. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Lillyston,  instantly;  "the  fellow 
was  civil  enough,  and  began  to  back  his  horses  the  mo- 
ment I  told  him  there  was  a  race,  when  these  gentlemen 
ran  up,  abused  him,  struck  him,  and  cut  the  ropes." 

"Ay,  it's  all  very  fine  for  you  gentlefolk,"  said  the 
man,  with  bitter  scorn,  "  to  take  away  a  poor  man's 
living,  for  your  pleasure.  How  do  you  think  I'm  to 
pay  for  them  ropes  ?  am  I  to  take  the  bread  out  of  the 
children's  mouths,  let  alone  being  kicked  and  speered 

at  ?      D you  all !  I  ain't   afeard   o'  none   o'  you. 

Come  on  the  whole  lot  o'  you  to  one.  1  ain't  afeard — 
not  I,"  he  said,  again  glaring  round  like  a  bull  at  bay, 
and  stripping  an  arm  of  iron  strength. 

"  I  never  cut  your  ropes,  you  brute !"  said  Bruce,  be- 
tween his  teeth,  "  though  you  wouldn't  move  when  we 
asked  you  civilly." 

"  What's  that,  then,"  said  the  man,  pointing  to  a  bit 
of  rope,  two  inches  long,  which  Bruce  still  held  dang- 
ling in  his  hand. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  forget  the  facts,  Bruce,  in  your 
excitement,"  said  Lillyston,  very  sternly. 

"  Facts,  or  not,  I'll  have  you  up  for  assault,"  said 
Bruce,  affectedly,  wringing  the  mud  out  of  his  wet 
sleeve. 

"Have  me  up  for  assault!"  mimicked  the  man,  try- 
ing to  mince  his  broad  rough  accents  into  Bruce's  deli- 
cate tones ;  and  he  condescended  to  add  no  more,  but 
turned  round   to  catch   his  horses,  which  had  trotted 


MR.  NORTON — LILLYSTON.  115 

through  the  open  gate  of  a  neighboring  field,  and  were 
now  quietly  grazing. 

"  I  hope,  gentlemen,  said  Brogten,  bluntly,  "  that 
you're  not  going  to  believe  that  blackguard's  word, 
against  ours." 

"You  forget,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Norton,  the  tall  don, 
"  that  what  the  blackguard  (as  you  are  pleased  to  call 
him)  said,  is  confirmed  by  a  gentleman  here." 

"  And  impugned  by  three  gentlemen,"  said  Bruce, 
who  felt  how  thoroughly  he  was  in  disgrace. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  deny,  Bruce,  that  you  swore  at  the 
man  first,  and  then  cut  his  ropes,  when  he  was  already 
stopping  his  barge  ?"  asked  Lillyston. 

"  I  mean  to  say  he  wouldn't  move,  when  we   told 
im. 

"I  appeal  to  Home,"  said  Lillyston;  "didn't  the 
man  instantly  stop,  when  he  understood  why  we  wanted 
him  to  do  so  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Julian,  who,  still  dizzy  with  Brogten's 
blow,  was  standing  a  little  apart,  "  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  the  man  was  entirely  in  the  right." 

"I  am  inclined  to  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Norton,  with 
scorn  in  his  eye  ;  and  so  saying,  he  took  the  little  proc- 
tor's arm,  and  strode  away,  while  the  crowd  of  under- 
graduates broke  up  and  streamed  ofi"  in  twos  and 
threes. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  pay  that  fellow  for  his  rope, 
Bruce?"  asked  Lillyston  ;   "if  not,  I  do.'' 

"Pay!"  said  Brogten,  with  an  explosion  of  oaths; 
"I'll  pay  you  and  your  sizar  friend  there  for  this, 
depend  upon  it." 

"  We're  not  afraid,"  said  Lillyston,  quietly.     Julian 


116  GHOULS. 

only  answered  the  threat  by  a  bow,  and  the  two  walked 
off  to  the  bargee,  who,  in  despair  and  anger,  was  knot 
ting  together  the  cut  pieces  of  his  rope. 

Lillyston  sHpped  a  sovereign  into  his  hand,  and  told 
him  how  sorry  he  was  for  what  had  happened. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  man,  humbly ;  "  it's  a 
hard  thing  for  a  poor  chap  to  be  treated  as  I've  been ; 
but  you  re  a  rale  gentleman." 

"  Well,  do  me  one  favor,  then.  Promise  not  to  say 
a  word  to,  or  take  any  notice  of,  those  three  fellows,  as 
they  pass  you." 

The  man  promised ;  but  there  was  no  need  to  have 
rione  so,  for,  furious  as  Brogten  was,  he  and  his  compan- 
ic-ns  were  too  crest-fallen  to  take  any  notice  of  the  bar- 
gee in  passing,  except  by  contemptuous  looks,  which  he 
returned  with  interest.  On  the  whole,  it  struck  them 
that  they  would  not  make  a  particularly  creditable  dis- 
play in  hall  that  evening,  and  therefore  they  partook, 
instead,  of  a  sumptuous  repast  in  the  rooms  of  Lord 
Fitzurse,  who  made  up  for  the  dirt  which  they  had  been 
eating  by  the  splendor  of  his  entertainment. 

"  I'll  be  even  yet  with  that  fellow.  Home,"  muttered 
Brogten,  as  they  were  parting. 

"  He's  not  w-w-worth  it,"  said  the  host.  "  He's  one 
of  the  g-g-ghouls;  eh,  Bruce — ha,  ha,  ha  !" 


CHAPTER  X. 


CONTRASTS. 


"And  here  was  Labor  his  own  bond  slave ;  Uope 
Thai  never  set  the  pains  against  the  prize  ; 
Idleness  halting  with  his  weary  clog, 
And  poor  misguided  Shame  and  witless  Fear 
And  s';xiple  Pleasure  foraging  for  Death." 

Wordsworth.     Tliv  Prelude. 

Although  Julian  did  not  immediately  feel,  and  haj 
no  particular  reason  to  dread,  the  results  of  Brogten's 
displeasure,  yet  it  was  very  annoying  to  he  en  the  same 
staircase  with  him.  It  was  a  con£.tant  reminder  that 
there  "^as  one  person,  and  he  near  at  hand,  who  re- 
garded him  as  an  enemy.  For  a  time,  indeed,  Brog- 
ccn  tried  a  few  practical  jokes  oa  his  neighbor  and 
quondam  school-fellow,  which  gratified  for  the  moment 
his  desire  for  revenge.  Thus  he  would  empty  the 
little  jug  of  milk,  which  stood  every  day  before  Julian's 
door,  into  the  great  earthenware  pitcher  of  water  which 
Vv'as  usually  to  be  found  in  the  same  position ;  or  he 
VTOuld  make  a  surreptitious  entry  into  his  rooms,  and 
amuse  himself  by  upturning  chairs  and  tables,  turning 
pictures  with  their  faces  to  the  wall,  and  doing  some- 
times considerable  damage  and  mischief.  Once  Julian, 
on  preparing  to  get  into  bed,  found  a  neat  little  garden 
laid  out  for  his  reception,  between  the  sheets — llower- 

(117) 


118  PRACTICAL    JOKES. 

beds  and  gravel  walks,  all  complete.  This  course  of 
petty  annoyance  be  bore,  though  not  without  a  great 
Btru<i-(yle,  in  dignified  and  contemptuous  silence.  He 
looked  Brogten  firmly  in  the  face,  whenever  they 
chanced  to  meet,  and  never  gave  him  the  triumph  of 
perceiving  that  liis  small  arts  of  vexation  had  taken 
the  slightest  effect.  He  merely  smiled  when  the  hot- 
headed Kennedy  suggested  retaliation,  and  would  not 
allow  Lillyston  to  try  the  effect  of  remonstrance.  It 
was  not  long  before  Brogten  became  thoroughly  ashamed 
that  his  malice  should  be  tried  and  despised,  and  he 
would  have  proceeded  to  more  overt  acts  of  hatred  had 
he  not  been  one  day  informed  by  Lillyston  that  the 
Hartonians  generally  had  heard  of  his  proceedings,  and 
tlmt  if  he  continued  them  he  would  be  universally  cut. 
For,  indeed,  such  practical  jokes  as  Brogten  attempted 
are  now  almost  unknown  at  Camford,  and  every  man's 
room  is  considered  sacred  in  his  absence.  But  although 
he  desisted  from  this  kind  of  malice,  it  was  not  long  before 
Brogten  was  generally  shunned  by  his  former  school- 
fellows. He  developed  into  such  a  thorough  black- 
guard that,  had  it  not  been  for  his  merits  as  an  oars- 
man and  a  cricketer,  even  the  countenance  of  Bruce 
and  Lord  Fitzurse  would  have  been  insufficient  to  pre- 
vent him  from  being  deserted  by  all  the  undergraduates 
of  St.  Warner's,  except  that  small  and  wretched  class 
who  take  refuge  from  vacuity  in  the  society  of  cads, 
dog-fanciers,  and  grooms. 

Yet  Brogten's  Harton  education,  idle  as  he  had 
been,  sufficed  to  make  him  see  that  he  was  sinking 
lower  and  lower,  not  only  in  the  world's  estimation,  but 
m  his  own.     Unable  to  make  the  mental  effort  which 


LILLYSTON    AND    BROOTEN.  119 

the  least  approach  to  study  would  have  required,  he 
suffered  his  few  intellectual  faculties  to  grow  more 
and  more  gross  and  stolid,  and  spent  his  mornings  in 
smoking,  drinking  beer,  or  lounging  in  the  rooms  of 
some  one  as  idle  and  discontented  as  himself.  It  was 
sad  to  see  the  change  which  even  in  his  first  term  came 
over  his  face  ;  it  was  not  the  change  from  boyhood  to 
youth  which  gave  a  manlier  beauty  to  the  almost  femi- 
nine delicacy  of  Julian's  features,  but  it  was  a  look  in 
which  effrontery  supplied  the  place  of  self  dependence, 
and  coarseness  was  the  substitute  for  strength.  Beer 
in  the  morning,  and  brandy  in  the  evening,  cards,  and 
low  company,  and  vice,  made  him  sink  into  a  degrada- 
tion from  which  he  was  only  redeemed  by  the  still 
lingering  ambition  to  excel  in  athletic  sports,  and  by 
the  manly  exercises  which  rescued  him  for  a  time  from 
such  dissipation  as  would  have  incapacitated  him  from 
shining  in  the  boat  or  in  the  field. 

Lillyston  was  a  singular  contrast  with  Brogten ; 
originally  they  were  about  equal  in  ability,  position, 
and  strength.  They  had  entered  school  in  the  same 
form,  and,  until  Julian  came,  they  had  generally  been 
placed  near  each  other  in  the  quarterly  examinations. 
Both  of  them  were  strong  and  active,  and,  without  being 
clever  or  brilliant,  they  were  both  possessed  of  respecta- 
ble powers  of  mind.  Both  of  them  had  been  in  the 
Harton  eleven,  and  now  each  of  them  was  already  in 
the  second  boat  of  their  respective  clubs ;  but  with  all 
these  similarities  Lillyston  was  beginning  to  be  one  of 
the  men  most  liked  and  respected  among  all  the  best 
sets  of  his  own  year,  and  was  reading  for  honors  wiith 
a  fair  chance  of  ultimate  success,  while  Brogten  wag 


120  BRUCE. 

looked  on  as  a  low  and  stupid  fellow,  -whose  compan;^ 
was  discreditable,  and  whose  doings  were  a  disgrace  to 
his  old  school. 

The  two  presented  much  the  same  contrast  as  was 
also  visible  between  Julian  and  Bruce.  While  Julian 
and  Lillyston  had  mutually  influenced  each  other  for 
good,  while  they  had  been  growing  up  together  in  warm 
and  honorable  friendship,  thinking  whatsoever  things 
are  pure  and  true  and  of  good  report,  the  other  two  had 
only  fostered  each  other's  vanity,  and  rather  encouraged 
than  checked  each  other's  failings.  At  school  they 
were  always  exchanging  the  grossest  flattery,  and  the 
lessons  and  tendencies  which  each  had  derived  from  the 
other's  society  were  lessons  of  weakness  and  sin  alone. 
And  now  Bruce  was  looked  on  at  St.  Werner's  as  a 
vain,  empty  fellow,  living  on  a  reputation  for  cleverness 
which  he  had  never  justified, — low,  dressy,  and  extrava- 
gant, despised  by  the  reading  men  (whose  society  he 
afi"ected  to  avoid)  for  his  weakness  and  want  of  resolu- 
tion ;  by  the  real  athletes  for  his  deficiency  in  strength 
and  pluck,  and  by  the  aristocrats  (whose  rooms  he  most 
frequented)  for  the  ill-concealed  obscurity  of  his  father's 
origin,  and  the  ill-understood  source  of  his  wealth. 
Since  he  first  astonished  the  men  of  his  year  by  the 
brilliancy  of  his  entertainments  and  the  gorgeousness 
of  his  rooms,  he  had  steadily  declined  in  general  esti- 
jiation  among  all  whose  regard  was  most  really  valu- 
able, and  he  would  have  found  few  among  his  immense 
acquaintance  who  cared  as  much  for  Mm  as  they  did 
for  his  good  dinners  and  recherchd  wines.  Julian,  on 
the  other  hand,  who  knew  far  fewer  men,  could  count 
among  his  new  and  old  companions  some  real  friends— 


FRIENDS.  121 

triends  who  would  cling  to  him  in  adversity  as  well  as 
in  prosperity,  and  who  loved  him  for  his  own  sake^ 
whether  his  fortunes  were  in  sunshine  or  in  cloud. 
First  among  these  newly-acquired  friends  he  counted 
the  names  of  Owen  and  Kennedy,,  among  the  old  ones 
of  Lillyston  and  De  Vayne.  But,  besides  these,  he 
had  been  sought  out  by  all  the  most  distinguished  men 
among  the  St.  Werner's  undergraduates,  while  Mr. 
Admer,  who  improved  immensely  on  acquaintance,  had 
introduced  him  to  some  of  the  most  genial  and  least 
exclusive  dons.  Even  Mr.  Grayson  used  to  address 
him  with  something  approaching  to  warmth,  and  so 
high  was  his  general  reputation,  that  he  had  no  dif- 
ficulty in  making  the  acquaintance  of  every  man  of 
his  college,  whom  he  in  the  least  cared  to  see  or  know. 

Brogten  Avas  one  of  those  who  perceived  these  con- 
trasts, and  the  bitter  intense  malice  with  which  they 
filled  him  was  one  of  the  evil  feelings  which  helped  to 
drag  him  down  from  following  out  his  occasional  reso- 
lutions for  better  things. 

Strange  that  a  few  weeks  could  produce  such  difier- 
ences;  but  so  it  was.  At  the  end  of  those  few  weeks 
Bruce  went  back  to  take  part  in  his  mother's  splendid 
theatricals  and  routs,  with  a  consciousness  of  neglected 
opportunities  and  wasted  time,  even  if  his  conscience 
laid  no  worse  sins  to  his  charge.  Brogten  went  back, 
cursing  himself  and  all  around  him,  with  the  violent 
self-accusations  of  a  reprobate  obstinacy,  a  man  in 
vice,  though  hardly  more  than  a  boy  in  years.  Ken- 
nedy went  back  happy  on  the  whole,  happy  above  all 
in  the  certainty  that  he  had  made  in  Julian  one  noble 
friend.     Lillyston  wen^.  back  happy,  well  pleased  with 

11 


122  A    FEW    WEEKS. 

the  sense  of  duty  done,  and  the  prime  of  life  well  and 
innocently  enjoyed.  And  Julian  went  back  in  the 
game  train  with  De  Vayne,  happy  too,  with  a  mind 
Btrcngthened  and  expanded,  with  knowledge  deepened 
and  widened,  with  an  honorable  ambition  opening  be- 
fore him,  and  friends  and  a  fair  position  already  won. 
All  these  results  had  sprung  from  those  few  and  swiftly- 
gliding  weeks. 

The  Christmas  time  passed  very  pleasantly  for  the 
Homes.  They  had  few  relations,  and  Lady  Vinsear 
had  dropped  all  intercourse  with  them,  but  they  were 
happy  in  themselves.  Violet,  too,  had  the  pleasure 
of  forming  an  acquaintance  with  Kennedy's  sister  Eva, 
who,  with  her  aunt,  happened  to  be  paying  a  short  visit 
to  a  family  in  the  neighborhood.  Frank  and  Cyril  were 
at  home  for  their  holidays,  and  the  house  and  garden 
at  Ildown  rang  all  day  long  with  their  merry  voices  and 
incessant  games.  Old  Christmas  observances  were  not 
yet  obsolete  in  Ildown,  and  Yule  logs  and  royal  feasts 
were  the  order  of  the  day.  The  bright,  clear,  frosty  air 
— the  sparkling  sea  and  freshening  wind — a  lovely  coun- 
try, a  united  and  cheerful  family,  and  the  delights  of 
moderate  study,  made  the  weeks  speed  by  in  pure  en- 
joyment. With  his  mother,  his  brothers,  and  Violet, 
Julian  felt  the  need  of  no  other  society,  but  he  corre- 
sponded with  Kennedy  and  other  college  friends,  and 
eaw  a  great  deal  of  Lord  De  Vayne,  who  continually 
rode  over  to  pass  the  Sunday  with  them  at  Ildown,  and 
sometimes  persuaded  all  the  Homes  to  come  and  spend 
the  day  with  him  and  his  mother,  in  the  beautiful  but 
lonely  grounds  of  Uther  Hall. 

Whenever  they  accepted  ^he    invitation,  the  young 


AT    ILDOWX.  123 

and  pensive  viscount  seemed  another  man.  He  would 
join  in  the  boys'  mirth  with  the  most  joyous  ahicrity, 
and  talked  to  Violet  with  such  vivacity,  that  none  who 
saw  him  would  believe  what  a  shade  of  melancholy  usu- 
ally hung  over  his  mind.  His  life  had  been  spent  in 
seclusion,  and  he  had  never  yet  seen  any  to  whom  his 
heart  turned  with  such  affection  as  he  felt  for  Julian  and 
Violet.  His  mother  observed  it,  and  often  thought  that 
if  she  saw  in  Violet  Home  the  future  Lady  Do  Vayne, 
a  source  of  happiness  was  laid  up  for  her  only  son,  which 
would  fulfill,  and  more  than  fulfill,  her  fondest  prayers. 
It  never  occurred  to  her  to  think  that  he  would  do  bet- 
ter to  choose  a  bride  among  the  noblest  and  wealthiest 
houses  of  England,  rather  than  in  the  orphan  family 
of  a  poor  and  unknown  clergyman.  What  she  sought 
for  him  was  o-oodness  and  usefulness,  not  grandeur  or 
riches;  a  lonely  and  sorrowful  life  had  taught  her  at 
how  slight  a  value  rank  and  wealth  are  to  be  reckoned 
in  any  high  or  true  estimate  of  the  meaning  of  human 
life  ;  nor  did  it  add  greatly  to  her  desire  for  such  a  match 
that  Violet,  with  her  bright  hair,  and  soft  eyes,  and 
graceful  figure — with  her  sweet  musical  voice,  and  the 
rippling  silver  of  her  laugh,  and  the  rich  imagery  which 
filled  her  fancy — might  well  have  fulfilled  the  ideal  of  a 
poet's  dream.  But  Violet  was  still  very  young,  and  none 
of  Lady  De  Vayne's  hopes  had  ever  for  an  instant 
crossed  her  mind. 

Julian  was,  at  this  time,  and  had  been  for  some 
months,  intensely  occupied  with  the  thought  and  desire 
if  winning  the  Clerkland  scholarship,  a  university 
scholarship  of  ,£60  a  year,  open  to  general  competitioL 
antiong  all  the  undergraduates  of  less  than  one  year's 


124  AMBITION. 

btanding.  This  scholarship  was  the  favorite  succoss  oi 
Camford  life.  It  stamped  at  onoe  a  man's  position  as 
one  of  the  most  prominent  scholars  of  his  year;  and 
as  the  names  of  many  remarkable  men  were  found  in 
the  list  of  those  who  had  alread^-^  obtained  it,  it  gave  a 
strong  prestige  of  future  distinction  and  success.  Ju- 
lian had  a  peculiar  reason  for  longing  to  obtain  it,  be- 
cause, with  his  Harton  scholarship,  it  would  not  only 
enable  him  at  once  to  enter  his  name  as  a  pensioner, 
instead  of  a  sizar,  at  St.  Werner's,  but  even  make  him 
independent  of  all  help  from  his  family  and  guardians. 
There  would  have  been  reasons  sufficient  to  account  for 
his  passionate  desire  for  this  particular  distinction,  even 
independently  of  his  natural  wish  to  justify  the  general 
opinion  of  his  abilities,  and  the  eager  ambition  caused 
by  the  formidable  numbers  of  other  competitors.  In 
cjhort,  at  this  time,  to  obtain  the  Clerkland  scholarship 
was  the  most  prominent  personal  desire  in  Julian's 
heart,  and  could  some  genius  have  suddenly  offered  him 
the  fulfillment  of  any  one  wish,  this  would  undoubtedly 
have  been  the  first  to  spring  to  his  lips.  He  looked 
with  emulation,  almost  with  envy,  on  those  who  had  won 
it  before  him ;  he  almost  knew  by  heart  the  list  of  Clerk- 
land  scholars ;  and  when  he  returned  to  Camford  con- 
stantly discussed  the  chances  of  success  in  favor  of  the 
different  candidates.  Do  not  blame  him  ;  his  motives 
were  all  high  and  blameless,  although  he  at  length  turned 
over  this  thought  so  often  in  his  mind  as  to  recur  to  it 
with  almost  selfish  iteration,  and  to  regard  success  in 
ihis  particular  struggle  as  the  one  thing  wanting  to 
complete,  or  even  to  create  his  happiness. 

He  could  not  refrain  from  mentioning  it  at  home, 


THE    CLERKLAND    SCHOLARSHIP.  125 

although,  for  the  sake  of  preventing  disappointment, 
he  generally  avoided  dwelling  on  any  of  his  school  or 
college  struggles.  Deprecating  his  own  abilities,  it 
made  him  doubly  anxious  to  find  that  not  only  did  his 
St.  Werner's  contemporaries  regard  him  as  the  favorite 
candidate,  and  bet  upon  him  in  the  sporting  circles, 
(although  Brogten  furiously  took  the  largest  odds  against 
him,)  but,  what  was  worse,  his  own  family,  always  proud 
of  him,  seemed  to  regard  his  triumph  as  certain.  Thu? 
circumstanced,  and  most  fondly  avoiding  every  possi- 
bility of  causing  pain  or  disappointment  to  that  thrice- 
loved  circle,  of  which  he  regarded  himself  as  the  natu- 
ral protector  and  head,  he  was  more  than  ever  determ- 
ined to  do  his  very  utmost  to  prevent  failure,  and  give 
them  the  lasting  pride  and  pleasure  which  they  would 
all  receive  by  seeing  his  name  in  the  public  papers  as 
Clerkland  scholar. 

"  Come,  Julian,  and  let's  have  a  row,  or  a  sail,"  said 
Cyril,  one  morning  to  him,  as  he  sat  at  work.  "  Frank 
and  I  have  nothing  to  do  to-day." 

"  Not  to-day,  Cyril,  my  boy.  I  really  must  do  some 
work  ;  you  know  De  Vayne  made  me  ride  with  him 
yesterday,  and  I've  done  very  little  the  last  day  or 
two." 

"I  wish  I  liked  work  as  vou  do,  Julian." 

"It  isn't  only  that  I  like  work,  though  I  do,"  said 
Julian ;  "but  you  know  a  great  deal  depends  on  it." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  !"  said  Cyril ;  "you  mean  the  Clerk- 
land  scholarship  ;  but  never  mind,  Julian,  Lord  De 
Vayne  told  me  you  were  sure  of  that." 

"  Did  he?"  said  Julian,  a  little  anxiously;  "  then,  for 

11* 


126  "1    MUST    GET    IT." 

goodness'  sake,  don't  believe  him.      It's  very  kind  oi 
him  to  say  so — but  he's  quite  mistaken." 

"  Ah,  you  always  say  so  beforehand,  you  know."  You 
used  to  say  that  about  the  Harton  scholarship,  Julian, 
and  yet you  see?     Do  come." 

"Weil,  Idl  come,"  said  Julian,  smiling  a  little  sadly. 
"But,  Cyril,  don't,  pray,  say  anything  of  that  kind 
to  mother  or  to  Violet,  for  if  I  should  fail  it  would 
make  me  doubly  sad." 

Cyril,  thanking  Julian,  and  still  laughingly  pro- 
phesying success,  ran  out  to  tell  Frank  ;  and,  when  he 
had  gone,  Julian  stamped  his  foot  passionately  on  the 
ground,  and  said  half  aloud,  "I  will  ^Qt  this  Clerkland, 
I  will  get  it,  I  must  get  it !" 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then,  raising  his  eyes 
and  hands  to  heaven,  prayed  that  "  God  would  do  for 
him  that  which  was  best  for  his  highest  welfare ;"  but 
even  as  he  prayed,  he  secretly  determined  that  ob- 
taining the  Clerkland  scholarship  was,  and  must  neces- 
sarily be,  the  best  piece  of  worldly  prosperity  thai 
could  possibly  happen  to  him. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

SCREWED    IN. 

^Tot  6  xakov  uXtiaov  w^aiprjCenOa'.  e/isXXev 
^pu<T£ov^  aij.(p(UTov  y.ai  drj  /t.ezd  yzpav^  v^iufta 
6<ppa  Tztoi  or^ini)      .... 

di~a(;  di  nl  k'/.-strs  yzipo^. 

HoM.  Od.,  xxii.  11. 

Reader,  if  the  latter  part  of  the  preceding  chapter 
has  been  dull  to  you,  it  is  because  you  have  never 
enteved  into  the  devouring  ambition  which,  in  a  matter 
of  this  kind,  actuates  a  young  man's  heart  when  he 
is  aiming  at  his  first  grand  distinction — an  ambition 
which,  if  selfishly  encouraged,  becomes  dangerous  both 
to  health  and  peace,  and  works  powerfully,  perhaps 
by  a  merciful  provision,  to  the  defeat  of  its  own  darling 
hope. 

As  long  as  Julian  had  been  at  home,  a  thousand 
objects  helped  to  divert  his  thoughts  from  their  one 
cherished  desire ;  but  when  he  returned  to  Camford, 
finding  the  Clerkland  a  frequent  subject  of  discussion 
among  the  men,  even  in  hall,  and  constantly  meeting 
others  who  were  as  absorbed  in  the  thought  of  the  ap- 
proaching examination  as  himself,  he  once  more  fell 
into  the  vortex,  and   thought  comparatively  of  little 

else. 

(127) 


128  COMPETITORS. 

As  yet  he  had  had  no  means  of  measuring  himself 
with  others,  except  so  far  as  the  lecture-room  enabled 
him  to  judge  of  the  abilities  of  some  few  in  his  own 
college.  Under  these  circumstances  all  conjecture  must 
have  seemed  to  be  idle;  but  somehow  or  other  at 
Oamford,  by  a  sort  of  intuition,  the  exact  place  a  man 
will  ultimately  take  is  often  prophesied  from  the  first 
with  wonderful  accuracy.  St.  Werner's  being  by  far 
the  largpst  college  at  Camford,  supplied  the  majority 
of  the  candidates,  and  Julian,  Owen,  and  Kennedy 
were  all  three  mentioned  as  likely  to  be  first ;  but  the 
rival  ranks  of  St.  Margaret's  boasted  their  champions 
also,  and  almost  every  small  college  nursed  some  pro- 
digy of  its  own,  for  which  it  vehemently  predicted  an 
easy  and  indisputable  success. 

Owen  was  the  competitor  whom  Julian  most  really 
feared ;  educated  at  Roslyn,  a  comparatively  small 
school,  his  scholarship  was  not  so  ready  and  polished 
as  that  acquired  by  the  training  of  Marlby  and  Harton, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  improved  greatly  in  the 
short  time  he  had  been  at  St.  Werner's,  and  besides 
his  sound  knowledge,  he  had  a  strong-headed  common 
sense,  and  a  clearness  and  steadiness  of  purpose,  more 
valuable  than  a  quick  fancy  and  refined  taste.  In 
composition,  and  in  all  the  lighter  and  more  graceful 
requirements  of  a  classical  examination,  Julian  had  an 
undoubted  superiority,  but  Owen  was  his  equal,  if  not 
his  master,  in  the  power  of  unraveling  intricacies  and 
understanding  logic ;  and,  besides  this,  Owen  was  a 
better  mathematician,  and,  although  classics  had  con- 
siderable preponderance,  yet  one  mathematical  paper 
always    formed    part   of   the   Clerkland    examination. 


ANTICIPATI0X8.  121) 

IVennedy  who,  if  he  had  properly  employed  his  time, 
would  have  been  no  mean  rival  to  either  of  them,  had 
unfortunately  been  so  idle,  and  continued  to  be  so  gay 
and  idle  even  for  the  weeks  immediately  preceding  the 
examination,  that  they  all  felt  his  chance  to  be  gone. 
He  acknowledged  the  fact  himself,  with  something  be- 
tween a  laugh  and  sigh,  and  only  threatening  to  catch 
them  both  up  in  the  classical  tripos,  he  resigned  all 
hope  for  himself,  and  threw  all  his  wishes  into  the  scale 
of  Julian's  endeavors.  And  although  Owen  was  liked 
and  respected,  there  was  no  doubt  that  Julian  was 
regarded  throughout  the  university  as  the  popular  can- 
didate ;  the  Hartonians  especially,  who  had  carried  oft' 
the  prize  for  several  years,  were  confident  that  he  would 
win  them  another  victory. 

As  the  time  drew  near,  Julian  became  more  and 
more  feverish  with  eagerness,  and  his  friends  feared 
that  he  would  hinder,  by  over  reading,  his  real  proba- 
bility of  success.  Kennedy  felt  this  most  strongly,  but 
being  himself  engaged  in  the  competition,  Avas  afraid 
that  any  attempt  to  divert  Julian's  thoughts  would  not 
have  a  disinterested  look.  Lillyston  and  De  Vayne, 
unrestrained  by  such  motives,  did  all  they  could  to 
take  him  from  his  books,  and  amuse  him  by  turning  his 
attention  to  other  subjects;  but  with  such  strong  rea- 
sons for  exertion,  and  so  much  depending  on  success 
or  failure,  the  Clerkland  scholarship  continued  ever  th9 
prominent  subject  of  Julian's  thoughts. 

At  last  the  long  looked-for  week  arrived.  Afier 
chapel,  on  the  Sunday  morning,  De  Vayne  invited 
himself  to  breakfast  with  Julian,  and  continued  in  his 
company  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  going  with  him 


laO  "IN    QUIETNESS    AND    CONFIDENCE." 

to  the  university  sermon.  He  entirely  forbade  Julian 
even  to  allude  more  than  once  to  the  coming  examina- 
tion, and  managed  in  the  evening  to  get  him  to  come 
to  his  rooms,  where,  with  some  other  Hartonians  and 
Kennedy,  they  spent  a  very  pleasant  evening. 

"Good  night,"  he  said  to  Julian,  as  he  strolled  with 
him  to  his  staircase  across  the  starlight  court;  "don't 
Btay  up  to-night.  In  quietness  and  confidence  shall 
be  your  strength." 

The  examination  was  to  last  a  week,  and  Julian 
rose  for  it  refreshed  and  cheerful  on  Monday  morning. 
The  papers  suited  him  excellently,  and  his  hopes  rose 
higher  and  higher  as  he  felt  that  in  each  paper  he  had 
done  to  the  utmost  of  his  knowledge  and  ability.  He 
had  not  been  able  to  afford  a  private  tutor  during  the 
term,  with  whom  he  might  have  discussed  the  papers, 
but  he  sent  his  Iambics  and  Latin  verse  to  Mr.  Garden 
at  Harton,  who  wrote  back  a  most  favorable  and  en- 
couraging judgment  of  them,  and  seemed  to  regard 
Julian's  success  as  certain.  Julian  had  implicit  con- 
fidence in  his  opinion,  for  Mr.  Garden  entered  very 
warmly  into  all  his  hopes  and  wishes,  and  kept  up  with 
him  an  affectionate  correspondence,  which  had  helped 
him  out  of  many  intellectual  difficulties,  and  lessened 
the  force  of  many  a  temptation. 

The  papers  usually  lasted  from  nine  till  twelve  in 
the  morning,  and  from  two  to  four  in  the  afternoon. 
It  was  on  the  Friday  morning,  when  only  three  more 
papers  remained,  that  Julian  found  Mr.  Garden's  kind 
and  hopeful  letter  lying  on  his  breakfast  table  at  eight 
o'clock  ;  he  read  it  with  a  glow  of  pleasure,  because  he 
knew  that  he  could  rely  thoroughly  on  the  accuracj' 


HIGH    HOPES — A    SPORTED    OAK.  13] 

and  truth  of  his  old  tutor's  judgment,  and  as  he  read 
and  reread  it,  his  hopes  rose  higher  and  higlier. 
Finishing  breakfast,  he  began  to  build  castles  in  tho 
air,  and  to  imagine  to  himself  the  delight  it  would  be 
to  write  and  tell  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Garden  of  this 
new  leaf  to  the  Harton  laurels.  Never  before  had  he 
a  more  reasonable  ground  for  favorable  expectation, 
and  he  began  almost  to  run  over  in  his  mind  the  sort  of 
letter  he  would  write,  and  the  kind  of  things  he  would 
say.  Leaning  over  his  window-sill,  he  enjoyed  the 
cool  feeling  of  the  early  spring  breeze  on  his  brow 
and  hair,  and  then  finding  by  his  watch  that  it  was 
time  to  start,  he  took  his  cap  and  gown,  and  prepared 
to  sally  out  to  the  senate-house. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  gyp,  when  he  had  laid 
breakfast  and  put  the  kettle  on  the  fire,  to  go  away 
and  "sport  the  oak,"  i.e.  shut  the  outer  door,  so  as 
to  prevent  any  one  from  coming  into  the  rooms  until 
their  owner  was  awake  and  dressed.  Julian,  therefore, 
was  not  surprised  to  see  his  door  "sported,"  but  was 
surprised  to  find  that,  when  he  lifted  the  latch,  the 
door  did  not  open  to  his  touch.  He  pushed  it  with 
some  force,  and  then  kicked  it  with  his  foot  to  see  if 
some  stone  or  coal  had  not  caught  against  it,  but  the 
door  still  remained  obstinately  closed;  he  put  hia 
shoulder  against  it,  fancying  that  some  heavy  weight, 
like  the  coal-box  or  water-pitcher,  might  have  been 
placed  outside, — but  all  in  vain ;  the  thick  door  did 
not  even  stir,  and  then  there  flashed  upon  Julian  the 
bitter  truth  that  he  had  been  screwed  in.  He  under- 
stood now  the  stifled  titter  which  he  fancied  he  had 
heard  after  one  of  his  most  violent  efforts  to  get  out. 


132  "  MANY    A    SLIP." 

in  one  instant,  before  he  had  time  to  think,  a  fit 
of  blind,  passionate,  uncontrollable  fury  had  clouded 
and  overpowered  Julian's  whole  mind.  Almost  uncon- 
scious of  what  he  was  doing,  he  kicked  the  door  with  all 
his  might,  and  beat  on  it  savagely  with  his  clenched 
fists,  until  his  knuckles  streamed  with  blood  :  he  forgot 
everything  but  the  one  burning  determination  to  get 
out  at  all  hazards,  and  to  wreak  on  Brogten,  whom  he 
felt  to  be  the  author  of  his  calamity,  some  desperate 
and  terrible  revenge.  But  the  thick  oak  door,  screwed 
evidently  with  much  care  and  in  many  places,  resisted 
all  his  efforts,  and  no  one  came  to  help  him  from  out- 
side. The  gyp,  who  Avas  usually  about,  happened  to 
have  gone  on  an  errand ;  the  staircase  was  one  of  the 
most  secluded  in  the  college;  the  fellow  who  was  Ju- 
lian's nearest  neighbor  had  "  gone  down  "  for  a  few 
days,  and  it  was  improbable  that  any  one  ever  heard 
him,  except  Brogten,  to  whom,  he  thought,  every  sound 
of  his  angry  violence  would  be  perfect  music. 

All  was  useless,  and  Julian,  as  he  strode  up  and  down 
the  room,  clenched  his  hands,  and  bit  his  lips  in  pas- 
sionate excitement.  Suddenly  it  struck  him  that  ho 
would  escape  by  the  window  ;  but,  looking  out  for  the 
purpose,  he  found  that,  when  he  had  jumped  from  the 
sloping  roof  below  him,  he  was  still  thirty  feet  above 
the  ground,  which,  in  that  place,  was  not  the  turf  of  the 
bowling-green,  but  a  hard  gravel  road.  Giving  up  the 
attempt  in  despair,  he  sat  down,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands  ;  but  instantly  the  picture  of  the  senate- 
house,  with  the  sixty  candidates  who  were  trying  for  the 
scholarship,  all  writing  at  some  new  paper — while  he 
was  thus  cut  off  (as  he  thought)  from  the  long-desired 


A    FRIEND    IX    NEED.  1323 

accouiplishment  of  all  his  hopes — rose  before  his  eyes, 
and,  springing  up  once  more,  he  seized  the  poker,  and 
raising  it  over  his  shoulder  like  a  hammer,  brought  down 
the  heavy  iron  knob  with  a  crash  on  the  oaken  panels. 
He  struck  again  and  again,  but,  by  a  shower  of  jBerce 
blows,  could  only  succeed  in  covering  the  door  with  deep 
round  dents.  Finally,  he  seized  the  heaviest  chair  in 
the  room,  and  dashed  it  savagely  with  one  heavy  drive 
against  the  unyielding  oak ;  a  second  blow  shivered  the 
chair  to  splinters,  and  Julian,  a  compulsory  prisoner  at 
that  excited  moment,  flung  himself  on  the  sofa,  furious 
and  weary,  with  something  that  sounded  like  a  fierce 
imprecation. 

Full  twenty  minutes  had  been  occupied  by  his  futile 
and  frantic  efibrts,  and,  for  a  few  moments  longer  he 
sat  still  in  a  stupor  of  grief  and  rage.  Meanwhile,  seve- 
ral of  the  other  competitors  for  the  Clerkland  had  no- 
ticed his  absence  in  the  senate-house,  and  Owen  and 
Kennedy  kept  directing  anxious  glances  to  the  door, 
and  dreading  that  he  was  ill.  At  last  half  an  hour  had 
elapsed,  and  Kennedy,  unable  any  longer  to  endure  the 
suspense,  went  up  to  the  examiner,  and  said, — 

"  One  of  the  candidates  is  absent,  sir.  Would  you 
allow  me  to  go  and  inquire  the  reason?" 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  the  examiner. 

"  Home,  sir." 

"  Indeed  !  But  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  allow  you  to 
leave  the  senate-house ;  the  rules,  you  know,  on  this 
Bubject,  are  necessarily  very  strict." 

"  Then,  sir,  I  will  merely  show  up  what  I  have  writ- 
ten, for  I  am  sure  there  must  be  some  unusual  reason 
for  Home's  absence.'' 

12 


134  LIBERATED. 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr,  Kennedy,  pray  don't  do  so,"  said  the 
sxamincr,  wiio  knew  how  well  Kennedy  had  been  doing.; 
"  I  will  send  the  university  marshal  to  inquire  for  Mr. 
Home ;  it  is  a  very  unusual  compliment  to  pay  him,  but 
I  think  it  may  be  as  well  to  do  so." 

It  so  happened  that  as  the  marshal  crossed  the 
court  to  Julian  's  rooms,  Lillyston  and  De  Vayne,  who 
were  strolling  toward  the  grounds,  caught  sight  of  him, 
and  went  with  much  curiosity  to  inquire  the  object  of 
his  errand. 

"Home  not  in  the  senate-house!"  said  Lillyston,  on 
hearing  the  marshal's  answer ;  "  good  heavens,  what 
can  be  the  matter  !"  and,  without  waiting  to  hear  more, 
he  darted  to  Julian's  door,  and  called  his  name. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Julian,  in  a  fretful  and 
angry  voice. 

"Why  are  you  sported?  and  why  aren't  you  in  for 
^he  Cierkland  ?" 

"  Can't  you  see,  then  ?" 

"What!  so  you  are  screwed  in?"  said  Lillyston, 
in  deep  surprise  ;  "  wait  three  minutes,  Julian — three 
minutes,  and  I  will  let  you  out." 

He  sprang  down  stairs,  four  steps  at  a  time,  bor- 
rowed a  screwdriver  at  the  porter's  lodge,  was  back  in 
a  moment,  and  then,  with  quick  and  skillful  hand,  he 
drew  out,  one  after  another,  the  screws  which  had  been 
driven  deep  into  the  door. 

Julian  lifted  the  latch  inside,  and  Lillyston  saw  with 
surprise  and  pain  his  scared  and  wild  glance.  Julian 
said  not  a  word,  but  rushed  past  his  friend,  and  burst 
furiously  into  Brogten's  room.     Fortunately,  Brogteu 


LATE.  ISt 

was  not  in,  for,  the  moment  he  heard  steps  approach- 
ing, he  had  purposely  gone  out ;  but  Lillyston  followed 
Julian,  and  said, — 

"  Ccme,  this  is  folly  Julian  ;  you  have  not  a  momenr 
to  lose.  You  will  be  already  nearly  an  hour  late,  and 
remember  that  the  Clerkland  may  depend  upon  it." 

He  suffered  himself  to  be  led,  but  as  he  walked  he 
was  still  silent,  and  seemed  as  though  he  were  trying 
to  gulp  down  some  hard  knot  that  rose  in  his  throat. 
Ilis  expression  was  something  totally  different  from 
anything  that  Lillyston  had  ever  observed  in  him, 
e/en  from  a  boy,  and  his  feet  seemed  to  waver  under 
him  as  he  walked. 

De  Vayne  joined  them  in  the  court,  and  was  quite 
startled  to  see  Julian  looking  so  ill.  He  saw  that  it 
was  no  time  to  trouble  him  with  idle  inquiries,  and 
merely  pressed  him  to  come  into  his  rooms  and  take 
some  wine  before  going  to  do  the  paper.  Julian 
silently  complied.  The  kind-hearted  young  viscount 
took  out  a  bottle  of  choice  old  wine,  of  which  Julian 
swallowed  off  a  tumblerful,  and  then,  without  speaking 
\  word,  strode  off  to  the  senate-house,  which  he  reached 
pale  and  agitated,  attracting,  as  he  entered,  the  notice 
and  commiseration  of  all  present. 

The  examiner,  with  a  kind  word  of  encouragement, 
and  an  inquiry  as  to  the  cause  of  his  delay,  which 
Julian  left  unanswered,  promised  to  allow  him  in  the 
evening  as  much  additional  time  for  doing  the  paper  as 
he  had  already  lost.  Julian  bowed,  and  walked  to  his 
place. 

And  now  that  he  was  seated,  with  the  paper  before 
him,  he  found  himself  in  a  condition  to  do  nothing. 


136  PASSION. 

His  mind  was  in  a  tumult  of  wrath  and  sorrow.  Bitter 
sorrow  that  his  hopes  should  be  shattered ;  fiery  wrath 
that  any  one  should  have  treated  him  with  such  malig- 
nant cruelty.  His  brain  swam  giddily,  and  his  head 
throbbed  with  violent  pain.  His  hands  were  still  raw 
and  bleeding  with  his  efforts  to  burst  open  the  door; 
and  the  consciousness  that  his  whole  appearance  was 
wild,  and  that  several  eyes  were  upon  him,  unnerved 
him  so  completely  that  he  was  quite  unable  to  collect 
or  control  his  scattered  senses.  He  made  but  little 
progress.  The  clock  of  St.  Mary's  told  the  passing 
hours,  and  at  twelve  Julian  found  himself  with  nothing 
written  except  a  few  half-finished  and  incoherent  sen- 
tences, which  he  was  ashamed  to  show  up.  Dashing 
the  nib  of  his  pen  on  the  desk,  he  split  it  to  pieces ; 
and  then,  tearing  up  his  papers,  was  hurrying  out, 
when  the  voice  of  the  examiner  suddenly  recalled 
him. 

"  You  have  not  shown  me  up  any  papers,  Mr. 
Home." 

"No,  sir,"  he  answered,  sullenly. 

"Indeed!     But  why?" 

"I  have  not  done  any,  sir." 

"  Really !  I  am  sorry  for  that.  It  is  a  serious 
matter,  for  you  have  been  doing  remarkably  well, 
iuid Are  you  not  feeling  well?" 

"No,  sir,  not  exactly." 

"  Hum  !     Well,  it   is  a  great  pity ;   a  great  pity ; 

a  very  great  pity.     However "     There  seemed  to 

be  no  more  to  say,  and  as  Julian's  mind  was  in  too 
turbulent  a  state  to  allow  of  his  being  communicative, 


DE  vayne's  whip.  137 

he  did  not  trust  himself  to  make  any  remark,  and  left 
the  room. 

Kennedy,  who  came  up  with  him  as  he  went  out, 
asked  what  was  the  matter ;  but  as  he  only  answered 
with  an  impatient  gesture,  and  evidently  seemed  to 
wish  to  be  alone,  Kennedy  left  him  and  went  to  inquire 
of  Lillyston  what  had  happened,  while  Julian  hastened 
to  the  solitude  of  his  own  room,  and  breaking  with  the 
poker  one  of  the  outer  hinges  of  his  door,  to  secure 
himself  from  a  second  imprisonment,  flung  himself  on  a 
chair,  and  pressed  his  hands  to  his  burning  forehead. 
In  his  bitterness  of  soul  he  half  determined  to  abandon 
all  further  attempt  to  gain  the  Clerkland,  and  dwelt, 
with  galling  recurrence,  on  the  anguish  of  defeated 
aims.  But  the  sound  of  the  clock  striking  the  hour  of 
examination  started  him  into  sudden  effort,  and  almost 
mechanically  he  seized  his  cap  and  gown  and  went  out 
without  food  and  unrefreshed. 

Although  he  endeavored,  with  all  his  might,  to 
shake  off  all  thought  of  the  morning's  insult  and  mis- 
fortune, he  only  partially  succeeded,  and  when  be  folded 
up  his  papers,  he  felt  that  the  fire  and  energy  which 
had  shone  so  conspicuously  during  the  earlier  days  of 
the  examination,  and  had  imparted  such  strength  and 
brilliancy  to  his  efforts,  were  utterly  extinguished,  and 
had  left  him  wandering  and  weak.  When  the  time 
was  over,  he  went  to  De  Vayne's  rooms,  and  said 
abruptly, — 

"De  Vayne,  will  you  lend  me  your  riding- whip?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  De  Vayne,  starting  up  to  meet 
him,     "Are  you  going  to  have  a  ride?     I  wish  you 

12* 


138  A    DINNER. 

would  ride  my  horse ;  I'll  hire  another,  and  come  with 
you." 

"No  ;  I  don't  want  a  ride." 

"  What  do  you  want  the  whip  for,  then  ?"  said  De 
Vayne,  uneasily. 

"  Nothing.  Let  me  go ;  it  must  be  time  for  you  to 
go  to  hall." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  dine  in  hall  to-day,"  said  De 
Vayne.  "  Dining  at  the  high  table,  with  none  but 
dons  to  talk  to,  is  dull  work  for  an  undergraduate. 
Stop  !  you  shall  dine  with  me  here,  Julian.  I  know 
you  won't  care  to  go  to  hall  to-day.  Nay,  you  shall," 
he  said,  putting  his  back  against  the  door ;  "  I  shall 
be  as  dull  as  night  without  you." 

He  made  Julian  stay,  for  it  happened  that  at  that 
moment  his  gyp  brought  up  dinner,  and  Julian,  hungry 
and  weary,  was  tempted  to  sit  down.  De  Vayne,  who 
only  too  well  divined  his  reason  for  borrowing  the  whip, 
was  delighted  at  having  succeeded  in  detaining  him,  for 
he  knew  that  the  only  time  when  Julian  would  be  likely 
to  meet  Brogten  was  immediately  after  hall. 

Whiling  away  the  time  with  exquisite  tact — talking 
to  him  without  pressing  him  to  talk  much  in  reply — 
turning  his  thoughts  to  indifferent  subjects,  until  he  had 
succeeded  in  arousing  his  interest — the  young  viscount 
detained  his  guest  till  evening,  and  then  persuaded  him 
to  have  tea.  Lord  De  Vayne  played  well  on  the  piano, 
and  knowing  Julian's  passion  for  music,  was  rewarded 
for  his  unselfish  efforts  by  complete  success  in  rousing 
bis  attention.  He  played  some  of  the  finest  passages 
af  a  recent  and  beautiful  oratorio,  until  Julian  almost 


A    WHIP    AGAIN.  139 

forgot  his  troubles,  and  was  ready  to  talk  with  more 
freedom  and  in  a  kindlier  mood 

"You  surely  won't  want  the  whip  now,"  said  De 
Vayne,  in  some  dismay,  as  Julian  picked  it  up  on  saying 
good  night. 

"  Yes,  I  shall,"  answered  Julian.     "'Good  night 


ri  I 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A     GUST     OF     THE     SODL. 

"  Once  more  will  the  wronger,  at  tkis  last  of  all. 
Dare  to  say,  '  I  did  wrong,'  rising  in  his  fall  ?" 

Bkowninq 

The  story  of  Brogten's  practical  joke,  and  the 
circumstances  which  made  it  so  unusually  disgraceful, 
spread  with  lightning-like  rapidity  through  St.  Wer- 
Der's  College  ;  and  when  he  swaggered  into  hall  with 
his  usual  self-confident  air,  he  was  surprised  to  find 
himself  met  with  cold  and  even  with  frowning  looks. 
Snatches  of  conversation  which  went  on  around  him 
soon  showed  him  the  reason  of  the  general  disapproba- 
tion ;  and  when  he  learnt  how  violently  the  current  of 
popular  opinion  was  beginning  to  set  against  him,  and 
how  unfavorable  a  view  was  taken  of  his  conduct,  he 
began  seriously  to  regret  that  he  had  given  the  reins 
to  his  malice. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  now  if  Home  were  to  lose  tlie 
Clerkland ;   he  was  sure  of  it  before   this  morning,' 
said  one. 

"  What  a  cursed  shame !"  echoed  another.  "  1 
never  in  my  life  heard  a  more  blackguard  trick.  That 
fellow  Brogten  has  lost  the  Hartonians  the  scholarship; 
lucky  if  he  hasn't  lost  it  to  St.  Werner's  too.  Per 
haps  that  Benedict  man  will  get  it." 
(140) 


brogten's  bets.  141 

"1  say,  Kennedy,"  said  a  third,  "if  I  were  you  or 
Lillyston,  or  any  other  of  Home's  particular  friends, 
I'd  duck  Brogten." 

"  Let's  wait  till  wo  see  whether  Home  does  lose 
the  scholarship  first,"  said  Lillyston.  '■'•If  he  does, 
Brogten  deserves  anything ;  but  I  have  strong  hopes 

yet." 

"I  know  Home,"  said  Kennedy,  "'and  he  would 
uover  forgive  such  an  interference,  or  I  declare  I  should 
be  inclined  to  do  it." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  do  it,"  thundered  Brogten, 
from  a  farther  end  of  the  table. 

"  I  have  just  given  my  reasons  for  not  seeing  fit  to 
do  it,"  said  Kennedy,  with  a  curl  of  the  lip.  "By-the- 
by,  Mr.  Brogten,"  he  continued,  sarcastically,  "I 
hope  that  you  don't,  after  this,  expect  to  be  paid  any 
of  the  bets  you  have  made  against  Home's  getting  the 
Clerkland?" 

"  There's  my  betting-book,"  replied  Brogten,  fling- 
ing it  at  Kennedy,  whom  it  struck  in  the  face,  and  who 
took  no  further  notice  of  the  insult  than  to  pick  up  the 
book,  and  throw  it  into  the  great  brazier,  full  of  glow- 
ing charcoal,  which  stands  in  the  center  of  St.  Werner's 
hall. 

"  Don't  do  that,  confound  you !"  cried  Brogten, 
springing  up.  "  Do  you  think  there  are  no  bets  in  it 
but  those  about  the  Clerkland  ?" 

"  Keep  your  missiles  to  yourself,  then,"  said  Ken- 
nedy, while  Brogten  burnt  his  fingers  in  the  vain 
attempt  to  rescue  his  book. 

"  I  hope  you've  at  least  hedged,  or  behaved  as 
judiciously  in  the  case  of  your  other  bets  as  in  those 


L42  A    WINGED    ARROW. 

about  the  Clerklaiid,"  suggested  one  of   his  sportiijg 
friends. 

This  last  sneei'  and  insinuation  were  too  much,  and 
it  galled  the  proud  man  to  the  quick  to  hear  the  laugh 
of  scorn  which  followed.  He  turned  round,  seized 
his  cap,  and  flinging  at  Kennedy  a  look  of  intense  and 
concentrated  hatred,  left  the  hall,  and  rushed  up  to  his 
rooms. 

To  do  Brogten  justice,  he  had  never  intended  for  a 
moment  to  affect  Julian's  chance  of  ultimate  success, 
when  he  enjoyed  the  mean  satisfaction  of  screwing  up 
his  door.  He  liad  indeed  regarded  him  with  a  dislike, 
which  received  a  tinge  of  deeper  intensity  from  the 
envy,  and  even  admiration,  with  which  it  Avas  largely 
mingled.  But  although  he  had  calculated  that  his  trick 
might  be  more  telling  and  offensive  if  done  at  this  par- 
ticular opportunity,  and  although  he  had  quite  suf- 
ficient grudge  against  his  former  school-fellow  to  wish 
him  a  deep  annoyance,  yet  he  would  never  have  dreamed 
of  willfully  thwarting  his  most  cherished  aims,  or  ma- 
terially affecting  his  prospects  and  position.  So  vile  a 
malice  would  have  been  intolerable  to  any  one,  and  the 
thought  of  it  was  thoroughly  intolerable  to  Brogten,  in 
whom  all  gleams  of  honorable  feeling  were  by  no  means 
extinguished,  however  dormant  they  might  seem.  It 
had  never  entered  into  his  thoughts  to  anticipate  the 
violent  consequences  which  his  act  had  produced ;  and 
when  told  of  Julian's  passion  and  suffering,  he  had  felt 
such  real  remorse  that  he  had  even  half  intended  to 
wait  for  him  as  he  went  to  hall,  and  there — in  a  quasi- 
public  manner,  since  men  were  sure  1o  be  standing 
about  on  the  hall  steps — to  endure  the  mortification  of 


STRUGGLES.  14:j 

expressing  his  regret  to  the  man  whom  he  had  cho8ci) 
to  treat  as  his  enemy.  But  wlien  he  found  Inmsclf  cu: 
and  jeered  at — when  he  was  even  met  by  the  sugges- 
tion that  he  had  intended  basely  to  serve  his  own  pe- 
cuniary interests  at  Julian's  expense — a  method  of 
swindling  which  he  had  never  for  one  instant  contem- 
plated— all  his  softer  and  better  feelings  vanished  at 
once,  and  created  a  brutal  hardness  in  his  heart,  which 
now  once  more  he  was  striving  in  solitude  to  mollify  or 
remove. 

And  he  succeeded  so  far  that,  while  brooding  sav- 
agely over  the  venomous  shafts  of  sarcasm  and  ridicule 
with  which  Kennedy  had  wounded   him,  he  gradually 
softened   his   feelings   toward    Julian,  by  transferring 
them    in    tenfold  virulence    against    Julian's    nearest 
friend.      Home  and  he  had  been  school-fellows,  after 
all,  and  Julian  had  never  done  him  any  wrong ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  liked  the  boy  ;  he  remembered,  distinctly, 
how  the  first  seeds  of  ill-will  against  him  had  been 
sown,  by  the  reserve  with  which  Julian,  as  a  school-fel- 
low, had   received   his  advances.     Without  being  rude 
and  uncivil,  he  had  managed  to  hold  aloof  from  him, 
and,  as  Brogten  was  in   some  repute  at  Harton  when 
Home  came,  and  was,  moreover,  an  Hartonian  of  much 
longer  standing,  his  sensitive  pride  had  been  stung  by 
the  fact  that  the  "  new  fellow"  whose  pleasant  face  and 
manners  had  attracted  his  notice,  did  not  at  once  and 
gratefully  embrace  his  proffered   friendship.     Circum- 
stances had  tended  to  widen  the  breach  between  them ; 
but  secretly  he  liked  Home  still,  and  would  have  gladly 
been  his  friend.    "  And,  after  all,"  he  thought,  "  Home 
has  never  once  retaliated  any  injury  which  I  have  un- 


144  SELF-CONQUEST. 

doubteJlj  done  him ;  lie  has  never  done  me  any  harm. 
Even  in  the  affair  at  the  boats,  he  only  did  what  was 
:juite  justifiable,  and  I  was  far  more  in  the  wrong  than 
ha  was  when  I  struck  him.  And  now  they  all  say 
I  shall  have  prevented  him  from  getting  this  con- 
founded Clerkland.  And  I  know  how  he  longed  for  it, 
and  how  much  all  his  hopes  and  wishes  were  fixed  upon 
it-  Upon  my  word,  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  was 
a  very  blackguard  thing  of  me  to  do,  and  I  wish  I  had 
been  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  before  I  did  it.  I  think 
— yes — I  think  I'll  go  and  see  Home,  and  ask  his  par- 
don ;  yes,  upon  my  word,  I  need  his  forgiveness,  and 
would  give  a  good  deal  to  get  it.  He's  a  grand  fellow, 
after  all.  I  wish  he'd  take  me  as  a  friend.  I  should 
be  infinitely  better  for  it;  and  I  will  be  better,  too." 
And  as  he  thus  reasoned  with  himself,  Brogten  began 
to  yearn  for  better  things,  and  for  Julian's  friendship 
as  a  means  of  helping  him  to  higher  aims ;  and  he 
remembered  the  lines — 

"  I  would  we  were  boys  as  of  old, 
lu  the  field,  by  the  fold ; 
His  outrage,  God's  patience,  man's  scorn, 
Were  so  easily  borne." 

So  his  thoughts  ran  on,  but  when  it  occurred  to  him 
ttiat  no  such  humiliation  on  his  part  would  perhaps  go 
very  far  to  mend  the  general  disgust  with  which  he  had 
been  greeted,  he  began  to  waver  again.  "  What  busi- 
ness had  they  to  assume  that  I  meant  the  worst?  I 
may  be  a  bad  fellow,  but  (and  a  mental  oath  followed) 
I'm  not  a  blackleg  after  all.     That  fellow  Kennedy— 


REVENGE.      .  145 

curse  him! — I'll  be  even  with  him  yet.  I  swear  that 
he  shall  rue  it.  I'll  be  a  very  fiend  in  the  vengeance  I 
take — curse  him,  curse  him  !"  And  stamping  his  heel 
furiously  on  the  floor,  he  swallowed  some  raw  brandy, 
and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  his  room. 

The  conflict  of  his  thoughts  lasted,  almost  without 
intermission,  till  evening.  Finally,  however,  his  he.irt 
softened  toward  Julian,  as  he  ran  over  in  his  mind  all 
the  circumstances  of  the  day.  Cheating  his  conscience 
with  the  fancy  that  he  was  conquering  his  feelings  of 
revenge  and  hate,  while  he  was  only  displacing  them 
with  Dthers  of  a  deeper  dye,  he  at  last  determined  to 
go  up  at  once  to  Julian's  room,  ask  his  pardon  openly, 
honestly,  and  unreservedly,  confess  his  past  unworthy 
inalice,  ajid  obtain,  if  possible,  at  least  Julian's  forgive- 
ness, perhaps  even  his  friendship,  in  return  for  so  great 
a  victory  over  himself. 

It  was  a  victory  over  himself,  and  no  slight  one.  For 
at  least  five  years  he  had  been  nursing  into  dislike  an 
inward  feeling  of  respect  for  his  enemy,  and  now  to 
humble  himself  so  completely  before  him,  required  a 
struggle  of  which  he  had  hardly  siipposed  himself  capa- 
ble, and  of  which  he  was  secretly  a  little  proud.  It  in- 
spired him  with  better  hopes  for  the  future,  and  gave  him 
a  pledge  of  combating  successfully  other  vicious  propen- 
sities, which  had  gained  an  ascendency  over  him. 

Hesitatingly  he  went  up  to  Julian's  rooms ;  he  saw 
the  broken  door,  and  it  made  him  waver.  All  was 
silence  inside,  but  still  he  hoped  that  Julian  was  in,  be- 
cause he  felt  sure  thiit  he  should  never  persuade  his 
natural  pride  to  consent  to  such  a  sacrifice  again.  But 
yet,  what  should  he  say  ?    He  had  been  thinking  of  a 

1-S 


I  i6  WITHEN    AND    WITHOUT. 

tLousand  set  forms  of  apology,  but  thej  all  vanished^ 
as,  with  beating  heart,  he  knocked,  a  little  loudly,at  the 
door. 

Julian,  too,  had  been  brooding  on  the  events  of  the 
day,  and  fanning  every  now  and  then  into  fierce  bursts 
of  flame  the  dying  embers  of  his  morning's  indignation. 
He  took  the  worst  view,  and  had  every  reason  to  take 
the  worst  view,  of  Brogten's  intentions.  He  had  re- 
ceived at  his  hands  many  wrongs,  and  an  incivility  as 
unvarying  as  it  was  undeserved.  Of  course  he  could 
not  tell  that  this  rudeness  was  but  the  cover  of  a  real 
desire  for  cordiality  between  them,  and  now  he  fully 
Delieved  that  Brogten  had  intentionally,  deliberately, 
and  with  malice  prepense,  formed  a  deep-laid  scheme  to 
dash  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  happiness  as  he  was  in  the 
very  act  of  tasting  it.  The  success  which  had  seemed 
in  his  very  grasp  would  have  removed  the  poverty,  which 
had  been  one  of  the  severest  trials,  not  to  himself  only, 
but  to  those  whom  he  most  dearly  loved ;  it  was  the 
thing — the  one  thing — of  which  he  had  thought,  and 
for  which  he  had  prayed.  "  And  now  it  was  wrenched 
from  him,"  so  he  thought,  "by  this  mean  and  das- 
tardly villain." 

He  had  determined  to  horsewhip  Brogen,  at  all 
hazards,  though  he  knew  that  Brogten  was  far  stronger 
than  himself.  De  Vayne's  maneuver  had  disconcerted 
his  intention,  for  he  could  not  carry  it  out  in  cold 
olood ;  but  even  now  he  felt  by  no  means  sure  that  he 
was  right  to  take  passively  an  insult  which,  if  unr&- 
sented,  might,  he  thought,  be  repeated  some  other 
time,  and  which,  if  frequently  repeated,  would  render 
wUege  life  wholly  intolerable.     All  this  was  floating 


COALS    OF    FIRE.  147 

through  his  mind,  when  there  came  a  loud-  -he  took  it 
for  an  insolent — knock  at  the  door,  and  his  enemy 
Btood  before  him. 

His  enemy  stood  before  him,  humbled  and  remorse 
ful,  with  the  words  of  apology  on  his  lips,  and  his  heart 
full  of  such  emotions  as  might  have  enabled  Julian  to 
convert  him  from  an  enemy  into  a  lasting  and  grateful 
friend.  But  when  he  saw  him,  in  one  instant  furious, 
unreasoning,  headlong  anger  had  again  seized  Julian's 
mind — the  more  easily  because  he  had  already  yielded 
to  it  once.  Without  stopping  to  hear  a  word — without 
catching  the  gentler  tone  of  Brogten's  rough  voice — 
without  noticing  his  downcast  expression  of  counte- 
nance— Julian  sprang  up,  assumed  that  Brogten  had 
come  to  ridicule  or  even  insult  him,  glared  at  him, 
clenched  his  teeth,  and  then,  seizing  De  Vayne's 
ridingwhip,  laid  it  without  mercy  about  Brogten's 
shoulders. 

During  the  first  few  blows,  Brogten  was  disarmed 
by  intense  surprise.  Of  all  receptions,  this  was  the 
only  one  which  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  con- 
template. He  had  imagined  Julian  bitter,  sarcastic, 
cold ;  he  had  prepared  himself  for  a  torrent  of  pas- 
sionate and  overwhelming  invective ;  he  had  thought 
how  to  behave  if  Julian  remained  silent,  or  rejected 
with  simple  contempt  his  stammered  apology  ;  but  to 
be  horsewhipped  by  one  so  much  weaker  than  himself 
— by  one  whom  he  remembered  to  have  pitied  and 
patronized  when  he  came  to  Hai  ton,  a  delicate  rosy- 
cheeked  boy — this  he  had  certainly  never  thought  of. 
Julian  had  almost  expended  his  rage  in  half  a  dozen 


148  UNEXPECTED  —A    THIRD. 

wild  blows  before  Brogtenwas  startled  fiom  liis  surprisii 
into  a  consciousness  of  his  position. 

But  when  lie  did  realize  it,  all  the  demon  took  pos- 
session of  his  heart.  He  seized  Julian  by  the  collar, 
wrenched  the  whip  out  of  his  hand,  and  raised  the  silver 
knob  at  the  end  of  the  handle.  What  fearful  hurt 
Julian  naight  have  received  from  so  heavy  a  weapon  in 
so  powerful  a  hand,  or  how  far  Brogten's  fury  might 
have  transported  him,  none  can  tell ;  but  at  that  very 
moment  he  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs,  which  arrested 
his  violence,  and  the  moment  after  Lillyston  entered. 

"What!"  said  Lillyston,  indignantly,  as  he  caught 
the  almost  diabolical  expression  of  Brogten's  face. 
"  Not  content  with  doing  your  best  to  ruin  Home,  you 
are  using  personal  violence  to  one  not  so  strong  as 
yourself.  Come,  sir,  you  have  felt  Avhat  I  can  do  before. 
Drop  that  whip,  or  take  the  consequences." 

"  Stop,  Hugh  !"  said  Julian,  sullenly ;  "  I  horse- 
whipped him  first." 

"You!"  said  Lillyston. 

"Yes,"  answered  Brogten,  slowly,  while  his  voice 
shook  with  passion;  "yes,  he  did  horsewhip  me,  and 
I  took  it.  Note  that,  you  Lillyston,  and  don't  think 
I'm  afraid  of  you.  And  as  for  you  Home  listen  to 
me.  I  came  here  solely  to  tell  you  that  though  I 
screwed  you  in,  I  never  dreamt  that  such  results  would 
follow.  I  never  dreamt — so  help  me,  God! — of  doing 
more  than  causing  you  ten  minutes'  annoyance ;  and 
now,  when  I  was  told  how  it  had  hindered  you  in  the 
examination,  I  was  heartily  sorry  and  ashamed  of  what 
I  had  done,  and" — he  began  to  speak  lower  and  faster^ 
as  the  remembrance  of  a  better  mood  came  over  him — 


A    LOST    OPPORTUNITY.  149 

"and  I  came  here,  Home,  to  ask  your  forgiveness. 
Yes;  I  to  beg  pardon  of  you,  and  humbly  and  honestly 
too.  And  now  you  see  how  you  have  received  me. 
Yes,"  he  continued,  fiercely;  "no  word  between  ua 
from  henceforth.  You  have  horsewhipped  me,  sir, 
and  I,  who  never  took  a  blow  from  man  yet  without 
returning  it,  have  taken  your  horsewhipping.      Take 

your  d d  whip,"  he  said,  flinging  it  to  the  end  of 

the  room  ;  "  and  after  that,  never  dare  to  say  that  all 
accounts  are  not  squared  between  us." 

Lillyston  made  room  for  him  to  pass.  With  a  lower- 
ing countenance  he  turned  from  them,  and  they  con- 
tinued silent  till  they  heard  his  last  heavy  footfall  as 
he  went  down  the  echoing  stairs. 

Lillyston  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  Julian  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  floor.  There  seemed  nothing  to  talk  about, 
so  Lillyston  merely  said,  "Good  night,  Julian.  I  came 
to  advise  you  to  go  to  bed  early,  and  so  get  a  good 
night's  rest,  that  you  may  be  yourself  to-morrow.  You 
have  not  been  yourself  to-day.     Good  night.' 

But  a  worse  evil  had  happened  to  Julian  that  day 
than  hinderance  in  his  career  of  ambition  and  hope. 
He  had  lost  a  golden  opportunity  for  an  act  of  Chris- 
tian forgiveness  which  might  have  had  the  noblest  in- 
fluence on  the  life  of  an  erring  human  soul.  He  had 
lost  a  golden  opportunity  of  doing  lasting  good,  and 
that,  too,  to  one  who  hated  him.  Alas,  it  is  too  seldom 
that  we  have  power  in  life  to  raise  up  them  that  fall ! 
Julian  felt  bitterly,  he  felt  even  with  poignancy,  Brog- 
ten's  closing  words  ;  but  it  was  too  late  now  to  offer 
the  forgiveness  which  would  have  been  invaluable  to 

13* 


150  EVIL    THOUGHTS. 

his  persecutor,  and  would  have  had  a  healing  effect  on 
his  own  troubled  thoughts  so  short  a  time  before.  AlJ 
this  gave  deeper  vexation  to  Julian's  heart  as  he  went 
moodily  to  bed. 

And  Brogtcn  ?  He  sat  sullenly  over  his  fire  till  the 
last  spark  died  from  its  ashes,  and  his  lamp  flickered 
out,  and  he  shivered  with  cold.  "  It  is  of  no  use  to 
conquer  myself,"  he  thought ;  "  it  is  of  no  use  to  dc 
better  or  be  better  if  this  comes  of  it.  Horsewhipped, 
and  by  him  !"  But,  as  he  had  said,  he  no  longer 
giieved  over  Julian's  injury: — that  was  wiped  off  by  the 
horsewhipping,  and  he  had  now  made  himself  under- 
stand that  his  inward  respect  for  Home  was  deeper 
than  the  long  superficial  quarrel  that  hud  existed  be- 
tween them.  It  was  against  Kennedy  that  the  current 
of  his  anger  now  swept  this  ever-growing  temptation 
for  revenge.  His  cra,ving,  often  yielded  to,  became 
terrible  in  its  virulence,  and  from  this  day  forward 
there  was  in  Brogten's  character  a  marked  change  for 
the  worse.  He  ever  watched  for  his  opportunity,  cer- 
tain that  it  would  come  in  time  ;  and  this  encourage- 
ment of  one  bad  passion  opened  the  floodgates  for  a 
hundred  more.  And  so  on  this  evening  he  went  on 
selling  himself  more  and  more  completely  to  the  devil, 
till  the  anger  within  him  burned  with  a  red  heat,  and 
as  he  went  to  bed  the  last  words  he  muttered  to  himself 
were,  "  That  fellow  Kennedy  shall  rue  it ;  curse  him , 
he  shall  rue  it  to  his  dying  day." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    CLERKLAND    SCHOLARSHIP, 
"Si  consilium  vis 


Pormittes  ipsis  expendere  numinibus  quid 
Conveniat  nobis,  rebusque  sit  utile  nostris 
Carior  est  illis  homo  quam  sibi." 

Juv  Sat.,  X.  346. 

How  different  our  smaller  trials  look,  when  they  are 
seen  from  the  distance  of  a  quiet  and  refreshful  rest! 
Utterly  wearied,  Julian  slept  deeply,  and  when  the  ser- 
vant awoke  him  next  morning,  he  determined  that  aa 
the  errors  of  yesterday  were  irreparable,  he  would  at 
least  save  the  chances  of  to-day. 

He  rose  at  once,  and  read  during  breakfast  the  letter 
from  home,  which  came  to  him  from  one  of  his  family 
nearly  every  day.  This  morning  it  was  from  Violet, 
and  he  could  see'  well  how  anxiously  they  were  awaiting 
the  result  of  his  present  examination,  and  yet  how  sure 
they  were  that  he  would  succeed.  Unwilling  to  trouble 
them  by  the  painful  circumstances  of  the  day  before^  he 
determined  not  to  write  home  again  until  the  decision 
was  made  known. 

This  morning's  paper  was  to  be  the  last,  and  Julian 
applied  to  it  the  utmost  vigor  of  his  powers.  After 
the  first  few  moments,  he  had  utterly  banished  every 
sorrowful  reflection,  and  when  the  clock  struck  twelve, 

a51) 


152  AFTER    THE    EXAMINATION. 

he  felt  that  once  more  he  had  done  himself  justice. 
He  answered  with  a  smiling  assent  the  examiner's  ex- 
pressed hope  that  his  health  was  hotter  than  it  had 
been  the  day  before,  and  joining  Owen  as  he  left  the 
senate-house,  found,  on  comparing  notes,  that  he  had 
done  the  paper  at  least  as  well  as  his  dreaded  but 
friendly  rival. 

His  spirits  rose,  and  his  hopes  revived  in  full.  Shak- 
ing off  examination  reminiscences,  he  proposed  to  De 
Vayne,  Kennedy,  and  Lillyston,  a  bathe  in  the  Iscam, 
and  then  a  long  run  across  the  country.  They  started 
at  once,  laughing  and  talking  incessantly  on  every  sub- 
ject, except  the  Clerkland,  which  was  tabooed.  Ten 
minutes'  run  brought  them  to  a  green  bend  of  the 
Iscam,  where  a  bathing-shed  had  been  built,  and  after 
enjoying  the  bath  as  only  the  first  bath  in  a  season 
can  be  enjoyed,  they  struck  off  over  the  fields  toward 
some  neighboring  villages,  which  De  Vayne  had  often 
wanted  to  visit,  because  their  old  churches  contained 
some  quaint  specimens  of  early  architecture.  On  the 
way  they  passed  through  Barton  Wood,  and  there 
found  some  fine  specimens  of  herb  Paris,  with  large 
bright  purple  berries  resting  on  its  topmost  trifolia- 
tions,  one  of  which  Julian  eagerly  seized,  saying  that 
his  sister  had  long  wanted  one  for  her  collection  of 
dried  plants. 

"  I  suppose  you  want  the  one  you  have  gathered  De 
"Vayne,  for  some  botanist,"  said  Lillyston. 

"No — yes — at  least  I  meant  it  for  a  lady,  too;  but 
it's  of  no  use  now?"  he  said,  stammering. 

"  For  a  lady — of  no  use  noiv,"  said  Kennedy,  laugh- 
ing; "what  do  you  mean  ?" 


HERB    PjiRIS.  15S 

"Oh  never  mind,"  said  Julian,  as  he  noticed  De 
Vayne's  blush,  and  divined  that  he  had  meant  the 
plant  for  Violet,  but  without  knowing  how  much  he 
was  vexed  by  losing  the  opportunity  of  doing  something 
for  her. 

They  had  a  beautiful  walk;  De  Vayne  made  little 
sketches  of  the  windows  and  gargoyles  of  the  village 
churches,  and  they  all  returned  in  the  evening  to  a 
dinner  which  Lilly ston  had  ordered  in  his  own  rooms, 
and  Avhich  gave  the  rest  an  agreeable  surprise  when 
they  got  in. 

"Julian,"  whispered  De  Vayne  as  they  went  away, 
"would  you  mind  my  sending  that  herb  Paris  to  Vi — 
I  beg  pardon — to  Miss  Home,  to  your  sister  ?" 

"Oh  dear,  yes,  if  you  like,"  said  Julian,  carelessly, 
surprised  at  the  earnestness  of  his  manner  about  such 
a  trifle. 

"  It's  only,  you  know,  because  Miss  Home  had  heard 
that  they  were  to  be  found  near  Camford,  and  asked 
me  to  get  her  one  for  her  herbarium." 

"Oh,  very  well,  send  it  by  all  means.  I  shouldn't 
like  you  to  break  a  promise." 

"Thank  you,"  said  De  Vayne;  "and  I  suppose 
that  Miss  Home  w^ouldn't  mind  my  sending  it  in  a 
letter?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Julian,  laughing;  "I've  no 
doubt  she'll  be  highly  flattered.  Here's  the  plant, 
Gojd  night." 

"What  could  he  have  meant,"  thought  he,  "by 
making  such  a  fuss  about  the  trifolium,  and  by  blush- 
ing so  when  Kennedy  chaff"ed  him  ?  he  surely  can't  have 
fallen  in  love  with  my  dear  little  Vi."    Now  he  thought 


154  A    SUSPICION. 

of  it,  many  indications  seemed  to  show  that  guch  was 
really  the  case,  and  Julian  contemplated  the  thought 
with  singular  pleasure.  It  did  him  good  by  diverting 
his  attention  from  all  harassing  topics;  and  knowing 
that  Violet  was  well  worthy  of  Lord  De  Vayne,  and 
could  make  him  truly  happy,  while  his  high  character 
and  cultivated  intellect  rendered  him  well  suited  for 
her,  he  hoped  in  his  secret  heart  that  some  day  might 
see  them  united. 

But  Lord  De  Vayne,  full  of  delight,  took  the  plant, 
pressed  it  carefully,  cut  it  to  the  size  of  an  envelope, 
and  then,  with  a  thrill  of  exquisite  emotion,  sat  down  to 
write  his  letter  to  Violet  Home. 

"  Dear  Violet,"  he  wrote  after  having  chosen  a  good 
sheet  of  note-paper  and  a  first-rate  pen,  "  you  remem- 
ber that   I    promised   to   find   you   a ."       "  Dear 

Violet! — no,  that  won't  quite  do,"  he  said,  as  he  read 
over  what  he  had  written;  "at  least  not  yet.  How 
pretty  it  looks !  What  a  charming  name  it  is  !  I  wish 
I  might  leave  it,  it  does  look  so  happy.  I  wonder  whe- 
ther it  would  do  to  call  her  Violet ;  no,  I  suppose  not; 
at  least  not  yet — not  y^t !"  and  the  young  viscount  let 
his  fancy  wander  away  to  Uther  Hall,  and  there,  by  the 
grand  old  fireplace  in  the  drawing-room,  he  placed  in 
imagination  a  slight  graceful  figure  with  soft  fair  hair, 
and  a  smile  that  lighted  up  an  angel  face, — and  by  her 
side  he  sat  down,  and  let  his  thoughts  wander  through 
a  vista  of  golden  years. 

Waking  from  his  reverie,  he  found  that  his  letter 
^ould  be  too  late  for  the  post,  so  he  deferred  it  til] 
Monday,  and  then  wrote  : — 


A  LITTLE    NOTE.  155 

"Dear  Miss  Home — I  inclose  you  a  sp  ciincn  of 
:he  herb  Paris,  which  I  promised  to  procure  for  you,  if 
I  could  find  one  in  Barton  Wood.  Julian  was  the  actual 
discoverer,  but  has  kindly  allowed  me  to  send  it  in  ful- 
fillment of  my  promise;  he  is  ouite  well,  and  we  are  all 
hoping  that  you  may  hear  in  a  day  or  two  that  he  has 
got  the  Clerkland  scholarship.  With  kindest  remem- 
brances to  Mrs.  Home  and  your  brothers,  I  remain, 
dear  Miss  Home,  very  truly  yours,        De  Vayne." 

Little  did  Violet  dream  that  this  commonplace  note 
had  given  its  author  such  deep  pleasure,  and  that  be- 
fore he  dispatched  it  he  had  kissed  it  a  thousand  times 
for  her  sake  and  because  it  was  destined  for  her  hand. 

De  Vayne  would  not  have  added  the  allusion  to  the 
Clerkland,  but  that  rumors  were  already  gaining  ground 
in  Julian's  favor.  The  universal  brilliancy  of  his  ear- 
lier papers  had  already  attracted  considerable  attention, 
and  from  mysterious  hints  at  the  high  table,  De  Vayne 
began  to  gather  almost  with  certainty  that  Julian  was 
the  successful  candidate.  Similar  reports  from  various 
quarters  were  rife  among  the  undergraduates,  and  were 
supposed  to  be  traceable  to  competent  authorities. 

Wednesday  evening  came,  and  next  morning  the 
result  was  to  be  made  known.  As  certainty  approached 
and  suspense  was  nearly  terminated,  Julian  awaited  his 
fate  with  sickening,  almost  with  trembling  anxiety.  At 
nine  o'clock  he  knew  that  the  paper  on  which  was  writ- 
ten the  name  of  tho  Clerkland  scholar  would  be  affixed 
to  the  senate- house  door,  but  he  did  not  venture  to  go 
and  read  it.  He  knew  that,  if  he  were  successful,  a 
hundred  men  would  be  eager  to  rush  up  to  his  rooms 


irs  ^fINE  o'clock. 

with  the  joyful  intelligence  ;  if  unsuccessful,  he  still 
trusted  that  he  had  one  or  two  friends  sufficiently  sin- 
cere to  put  an  end  to  his  painful  anxiety  by  telling  hi^n 
the  news. 

Nine  o'clock  struck.  Oh  for  the  sound  of  some  foot- 
step  on  the  stairs !  Many  must  know  the  result  by 
this  time.  Julian's  hopes  were  still  high,  and  he  could 
not  fail  to  hear  of  the  numerous  and  seemingly  author- 
itative reports  which  had  ascribed  success  to  him.  He 
pressed  his  hands  hard  together,  as  he  prayed  that 
what  was  most  for  his  welfare  might  be  granted  to  him, 
and  thought  what  boundless  delight  success  would  bring 
with  it.  What  a  joy  it  would  be,  above  all,  to  write 
home,  and  gladden  their  hearts  by  the  news  of  his 
triumph ! 

Every  moment  his  suspense  made  him  more  feverish, 
and  now  the  clock  struck  a  quarter  past  nine,  and  he 
feared  that  in  this  case  no  news  must  be  bad  news. 
He  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and,  at  this  moment  Mr. 
Grayson  strolled  across  the  bowling-green.  Then  he 
heard  anothor  don,  who  was  following  him,  call  out, — 

"I  say,  do  you  know  that  the  Clerkland  is  out?" 

"  Is  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Gravson,  with  unusual  show  of 
interest. 

"  Yes.     Who  do  you  think  has  got  it  ?" 

"  A  St.  Werner's  man,  I  hope." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  who  is  it?" 

What  was  the  answer — -Ower  or  Home  ? — at  that 
distance  the  names  sounded  exactly  alike. 

"  Oh,  then,  I  am  very  sorry  for "    Again  Julian 

iould  not.  with  his  utmost  eifort.  catch  the  name  with 


OWEN    OR    HOME? A    BLOW.  ].~u 

certainty ;  and,  unable  any  longer  to  endure  this  state 
of  doubt,  he  seized  his  cap  and  gown,  when  the  souml 
of  a  slow  footstep  stopped  him. 

But  it  was  Brogten'  s  step,  and  Julian  heard  hiin 
pass  into  his  own  room. 

A  moment  of  breathless  silence,  and  then  another 
step,  or  rather  the  steps  of  two  men;  he  detected,  by 
the  sound,  that  they  were  Lillyston  and  De  Vayne.    In 

one  moment  he  would  know  the was  it  the  best  or 

the  worst  ?  He  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  handle  of 
the  door ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  get  to 
the  top  of  the  stairs.  Why  on  earth  were  they  so  slow  ? 

"Well,"  said  Julian,  as  they  came  in  sight,  "is  the 
Clerkland  out?"  He  knew  it  was,  but  would  not  ask 
them  the  result. 

"Yes,"  they  both  said;  and  Lillyston  added,  in  a 
sorrowful  tone  of  voice,  "  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Julian, 
but  Owen  has  got  it." 

Julian  grew  very  pale,  and  for  one  second  reeled  as 
if  he  would  faint.  Lord  De  Vayne  caught  him  as  he 
btaggered,  and  added,  eagerly,  "But  you  are  most 
honorably  mentioned,  Julian,  'proximo  accessit,'  and 
an  allusion  to  your  illness  during  one  paper." 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  muttered  Julian  ;  "  please  leave 
me  by  myself."  They  were  unwilling  to  leave  him, 
and  both  lingered,  but  he  entreated  them  to  go;  and, 
respecting  his  desire  for  solitude,  they  left  him  alone. 

Julian  found  relief  in  a  burst  of  passionate  tears. 
He  flung  himself  on  the  ground  and  cursed  his  birth, 
and  his  hard  fate,  and,  above  all,  he  cursed  Brogten, 
who,  as  was  clear,  had  been  the  cause,  the  sole  cause, 
ifi  Julian   obstinately  said,  of   his    heavy  misfortune. 

14 


ir)8  DISAPPOINTMENl. 

"  Hero  I  am,"  he  murmured,  "  a  sizar,  an  orphan, 
poor,  without  relations,  with  others  depending  on  me, 
with  my  own  way  to  make  in  the  world,  and  now  he 
has  lost  me  the  one  thing  I  longed  for,  the  one  thing 
which  would  have  made  me  happy;"  and  as  Julian  kept 
brooding  on  this,  on  the  loss  of  reputation,  of  help,  of 
hope,  his  eyes  grew  red  and  swollen,  and  his  temples 
throbbed  with  pain.  He  was  far  from  strong,  and  the 
shock  of  news  that  shattered  all  his  hopes,  and  dashed 
rudely  to  the  ground  his  long,  long  cherished  desires, 
came  more  heavily  upon  him,  because  his  constitution, 
naturally  delicate,  had  suffered  much  during  the  last 
week  from  study  and  over  anxiety.  The  necessity  of 
writing  home  haunted  him, — to  his  mother  and  sister, 
whose  pride  in  him  was  so  great,  and  who  hoped  so 
much  for  the  honors  which  they  thought  him  so  sure 
to  win, — to  his  brothers  who  had  seen  his  diligence, 
and  who  would  be  deeply  sorry  to  know  that  it  had 
been  in  vain  ;  to  them  at  least  he  would  be  forced  to 
announce  the  humiliating  intelligence  of  defeat.  He 
mig-ht  leave  his  other  friends  to  learn  it  from  accidental 
sources;  but  oh  the  bitterness  of  being  obliged  to  an- 
nounce it  for  himself,  to  those  to  whose  disappointment 
he  was  most  painfully  alive,  and  oh  the  intolerable 
plague  of  receiving  letters  of  commiseration  ! 

He  could  not  do  anything,  he  could  not  read,  or 
write,  or  even  think,  except  of  the  one  blow  which  had 
thus  laid  him  prostrate.  He  leaned  over  his  wiiidow- 
sill,  and  stared  stupidly  at  the  great  stcne  bears  carved 
on  the  portals  of  St.  Margaret's  ;  his  eyes  wandered 
listlessly  over  the  smooth  turf  of  the  fellows'  boMcImg- 
green,  and  the  trim  parterres  full  of  crocus  and  anemone 


DE    VAYNE.  l.yj 

and  violet  which  fringed  it ;  he  watched  the  boats  skim 
past  him  on  the  winding  gleams  of  the  Lscam,  and 
shoot  among  the  water-lilies  by  the  bridge ;  and  then 
he  stared  upward  at  the  sun,  trying  to  think  of  nothin<r 
until  his  eyes  watered,  and  then  the  s'ght  of  a  don  in 
the  garden  below  made  him  shrink  back,  to  avoid 
observation,  into  his  own  room. 

Some  of  the  St.  Werner's  men  would  be  coming  soon 
to  condole  with  him.  What  a  nuisance  it  would  be! 
He  got  up  and  sported  the  door.  This  action  recalled 
in  all  their  intensity  his  bitterest  and  angriest  feelings, 
and  he  flung  the  door  open  again,  and  threw  himself 
full  length  on  the  sofa,  until  a  sort  of  painful  stupor 
came  over  him,  and  he  became  unconscious  of  how  the 
time  went  by. 

At  length,  a  slight  sound  awoke  him,  and  he  saw 
De  Vayne  standing  by  him.  De  Vayne  was  so  gentle 
in  heart  and  manner,  so  full  of  sympatliy  and  kindness, 
that  of  all  others  he  was  the  one  whom  at  that  moment 
Julian  could  best  endure  to  see. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  you  will  think  me 
very  foolish,  De  Vayne.  But  to  me  everything  almost; 
depended  on  this  scholarship,  and  you  can  hardly  tell 
how  absolutely  it  had  engrossed  my  hopes." 

"  It  is  very  natural  that  you  should  feel  it,  Julian. 
But  I  came  to  ask  if  you  would  like  me  to  save  you  the 
trouble  of  writing  home  to-day.  I  could  say  more,  you 
know,  than  you  could,"  he  added,  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
"  of  the  splendid  manner  in  which  you  acquitted  your- 
self, of  which  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  that  I  will  tell 
you  some  day." 

"  Thanks,  De  Vayne.     I  should  be  really  and  truly 


l60  MK.  ADMER. 

grateful  if  you  would.  They  Avill  expect  to  hear  by 
to-morrow,  and  I  know  that  if  I  write  now,  I  shall  be 
Baying  something  bitter  and  hasty." 

"  Very  well,  I  will.  Are  you  inclined  for  a  stroll 
now?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Julian,  unwilling  to  encounter 
the  many  eyes  Avhich  he  knew  would  look  on  him  with 
curiosity  to  see  how  he  bore  his  loss. 

"  Good  morning,  then,  I  shall  come  again  soon." 

"Do,  I  shall  like  to  see  you,''  said  Julian;  and  De 
Vayne  went  away,  thinking  with  some  happiness,  that 
if  he  had  won  Julian's  aflection,  that  would  be  some- 
thing toward  helping  him  to  win  Violet's  too. 

Julian  had  no  intention  that  any  strange  eye  should 
see  how  much  he  had  felt  Ibs  disappointment,  so  when 
Mr.  Admer  came  to  see  him,  he  gave  no  sign  of  vexa- 
tion, and  they  talked  indifferently  for  a  few  minutes, 
till  Mr.  Admer  said, — 

"Well,  Home,  I'm  sorry  you  haven't  got  this  scholar- 
ship. Not  that  it  makes  the  least  difference,  you  know, 
really.  No  sensible  man  would  have  thought  one  atom 
the  better  of  you  for  getting  it,  and  even  your  reputation 
stands  just  as  high  as  before.  Ah,  I  see  you  take  it 
to  heart  rather ;  all  very  natural,  but  when  you're  my 
age  you'll  think  less  of  these  things.  There  are  higher 
successes  in  the  world  than  these  small  university 
affairs. 

"But  they  aren't  small  to  me,"  said  Julian. 

"Not  to  men  up  here,"  said  Mr.  Admer. 

*•  'They  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  their  body 
The  murmur  of  the  world.' 


I 


AKISTIUS   FUSCUS.  ItiJ 

Perhaps,  after  all,  if  you  had  got  it,  it  would  only  have 
helped  to  make  you  as  fussy,  as  foolish,  and  as  self- 
important  as  Jones,  and  Brown,  and  Robinson,  who, 
because  they  are  dons,  think  themselves  the  most  im- 
portant people  in  England,  when  really  they  are  only 
conspicuous  for  empty-headedness  and  conceit ;  or  aa 
the  senior  wrangler,  who,  entering  the  theater  at  the 
same  moment  as  the  queen,  bowed  graciously  on  all 
sides  in  acknowledgment  of  the  acclamations.  As  it 
is.  Home,  you  are  a  man  who  ought  to  do  something  in 
the  world." 

Julian  could  not  help  smiling  at  Mr.  Admer's  usual 
style,  and  would  have  found  some  relief  in  arguing  with 
him,  had  not  Hazlet  entered,  whose  very  appearance 
put  Mr.  Admer  to  a  precipitate  flight.  There  could 
not  have  been  any  human  being  less  likely  to  give 
Julian  any  effectual  consolation  at  such  a  moment,  and 
he  could  not  help  sighing  as  Mr.  Admer  left  him  to  his 
persecutor. 

"  Fugit  improbus  ac  me  sub  cultro  linquit,"  he  said 
appealingly,  secure  in  Hazlet's  ignorance  of  the  Latin 
tongue ;  but  Mr.  Admer  only  shock  his  head  signif- 
ificantly,  and  disappeared. 

With  his  black  shining  hair  brushed  down  in  unusual 
lankiness  over  his  receding  forehead,  and  with  an  ex- 
pression of  sleek  resignation  unusually  sanctimonious, 
Hazlet  sat  down,  and  gave  a  half  groan. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "  dear  Julian- " 

"Home,  if  you  please,  Hazlet,"  interrupted  Julian. 

Hazlet  was  a  little  taken  aback,  but  he  said,— 

"Well,  dear  Home " 

14* 


io2  HAZLET. 

''Home  only^  if  you  please,"  said  Julian,  still  more 
abruptly. 

"Ah!  I  sec  you  are  in  a  rebellious — excuse  me, 
dear — I  mean  Home, — a  rebellious  spirit.  I  feared  if 
would  be  so  when  I  saw  that  godless  young  clergyman 
with  you." 

Julian  relieved  his  disgust  by  an  expression  of  im- 
patience. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  dear  Ju — I  mean  Home — ]. 
have  no  doubt,"  he  continued,  with  a  gusto  infinitely 
annoying,  "  that  you  needed  this  rod.  I  am  afraid 
that  you  are  as  yet  unconverted ;  that  you  have  as  yet 
no  saving,  no  vital  sense  of  Christianity.  Some  sin, 
perhaps,  needs  correction  ;  some " 

"Confound  your  intolerable  impudence  and  cant!" 
said  Julian,  starting  from  his  seat,  aroused  by  his  hypo- 
critical prate  into  unwonted  intolerance;  and  he  sud- 
denly observed,  by  the  cowering  attitude  which  Hazlet 
assumed,  that  the  worthy  youth  was  afraid  of  receiving 
at  his  head  the  water-bottle,  on  which  Julian's  hand 
was  resting.  Julian  thought  it  best  to  avoid  the  temp- 
tation, and  hoping  Hazlet  would  take  the  hint,  he  said, 
"  Forgive  my  rudeness,  Hazlet,  but  I  am  very  tired 
and  annoyed  just  now ;  in  fact,  I  am  hardly  in  a  con- 
dition to  talk  with,  as  you  see,  and  you  are  really  quite 
incapable  of  saying  anything  to  help  me." 

But  Hazlet  had  come  prepared  to  say  his  say,  and 
did  not  attempt  to  move. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  which  seemed  to  express 
satisfaction — (some  people  always  sigh  when  they  thank 
God) — "  I  am  afraid  you  are  unprepared  for  the  con 
Polations  of  religion." 


A    MASK.  IG? 

"Of  such  a  religion  as  yours,  most  certainly,"  in- 
terrupted Julian,  with  haughty  vehemence. 

"  The  natural  man,  you  see "     He  stopped  as 

he  saw  Julian's  hand  fidgeting  toward  the  water-bottle. 
"  Ah  !  well,  you  will  still  have  to  sit  at  the  sizars'  table, 
and  dine  on  the  fellows'  leavings ;  perhaps  it  might  in- 
scrutably be  good  for  you  to  bear  the  yoke " 

Had  the  fellow  come  to  insult  him  ?  Was  he  there 
on  purpose  to  gratify  his  malice  at  another's  misfortune, 
under  the  pretext  of  pious  reflections  ?  Half  a  dozen 
times  Julian  had  thought  so,  and  thought  so  correctly. 
Hazlet's  very  little  and  very  ignorant  mind  had  been 
fed  into  self-complacency  by  the  cheering  belief  that  he 
and  his  friends  formed  a  select  party  whose  future  wel- 
fare was  secure,  while  "the  world"  was  very  wicked, 
and  destined  to  everlasting  burning ;  and  in  proportion 
to  his  gross  conceit,  was  he  nettled  with  the  evident 
manner  in  which  Julian,  though  without  any  rudeness, 
avoided  his  company  even  at  Ildown,  where  he  reigned 
with  undisputed  sway  among  his  own  admiring  circle 
of  yuvaixdpia.  (Excuse  the  word,  gentle  reader;  it  is  St. 
Paul's — not  mine.)  Hazlet  had  come  there  (though  in 
the  depth  of  his  hypocrisy  he  hardly  knew  it  himself) 
to  enjoy  a  little  triumph  over  Julian's  pride,  and  to 
pour  a  little  vinegar,  in  the  guise  of  a  good  Samaritan, 
on  wounds  which  he  knew  to  be  bleeding  still. 

In  saying  the  last  sentence,  in  which  he  cut  Julian 
to  the  very  quick,  Hazlet  had  seemed  to  his  victim's 
excited  imagination  to  be  actually  smacking  his  lips 
with  undisguised  delight.  "  xih,  you  will  have  still  td 
dine  at  the  sizars'  table  on  the  fellows'  leavings!" 
Julian  knew  that  the  form  of  the  sentence  made  it  most 


164  LOOK  out! 

maliciously  and  odiously  false ;  and  that  this  hypo- 
critical son  of  Belial  should  address  him  at  such  a 
moment  in  such  a  way  was  so  revolting  to  his  ov/n 
generous  spirit,  that  he  could  endure  it  no  longer. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  Ju — Home,  I  m^ean — poverty 
is  no  disgrace  to  you,  you  know.  Some  of  the  sizars 
are  pious  men,  I  have  no  doubt ;  and  I  dare  say  the 
fellows  leave " 

"  I  swear  this  is  too  much,"  said  Julian,  using  the 
only  oath  that  ever  in  all  his  lifetime  crossed  his  lips ; 
"you  canting  and  mean — pshaw!  you  are  beneath 
my  abuse.  Sizar,  indeed !  There,  take  that,  and  be- 
gone !"  He  had  meant  to  empty  the  tumbler  in  his 
face,  but  his  hand  shook  with  passion,  and  the  glass 
flew  out  of  it,  and,  after  cutting  the  top  of  Hazlet's 
head,  fell  broken  on  the  floor. 

With  a  howl  of  dismay,  Hazlet  fled  to  his  own  rooms, 
where,  having  satisfied  himself  that  the  cut  had  done 
little  other  harm  than  leaving  some  red  streaks  upon 
his  damp  and  lanky  hair,  he  put  over  it  some  strips  of 
plaster  as  large  as  he  conveniently  could,  and  then,  with 
a  lugubrious  expression,  went  to  hall,  and  gratified  his 
malice  by  buzzing  and  babbling  among  his  fellows  all 
sorts  of  lies  and  exaggerations  about  Julian's  conduct 
and  state  of  mind.  When  Kennedy  came  in,  however, 
he  put  an  abrupt  end  to  Hazlet's  calumnies,  by  hand- 
ling his  own  tumbler  with  so  significant  a  glance  that 
Hazlet  assumed  a  look  of  terror,  and,  amid  shouts  of 
laughter,  retired  with  all  speed  out  of  reach  of  the 
ianger. 

Lillyston,  always   a  firm  and    faithful    friend,  was 


HAZLET    DISCOMFITED.  165 

^rieveJ  to  the  soul  to  hear  of  Julian's  condition ;  for, 
without  believing  half  that  Ilazlet  said,  it  was  at  least 
clear  that  Julian  had  shown  some  violence,  and,  if  Haz- 
let  was  to  be  trusted,  "  had  sworn  at  him  in  a  manner 
perfectly  awful."  What  had  come  over  Julian  of  late? 
Since  that  fit  of  uncontrollable  and  lasting  passion 
which  had  overpowered  him  Avhen  he  was  screwed  in, 
he  did  not  seem  to  have  recovered  that  noble  moral 
strength  and  equilibrium  which  was  usually  conspicuous 
in  his  character.  The  restlessness  which  had  prevented 
him  from  doing  the  paper,  the  half  sullen  silence 
through  the  day,  the  horsewhipping  of  Brogten,  the 
second  outburst  of  unchecked  feeling  at  the  loss  of  the 
scholarship,  and,  finally,  this  treatment  of  Ilazlet, 
caused  Lillyston  a  deep  regret  that  his  friend  should 
have  strayed  so  widely  from  his  usual  calm  and  manly 
course.  It  was  as  if  one  staggering  blow  had  loosened 
all  the  joints  of  his  moral  armor,  and  left  room  for  suc- 
cessive wounds.  He  determined  to  go  and  see  him  be- 
fore chapel,  and,  if  possible,  get  him  to  come  and  spend 
the  evening  quietly  with  him ;  he  was  only  prevented 
from  going  at  once  by  supposing  that  Julian  would 
be  dining  by  himself,  to  avoid  meeting  any  one  in 
hall,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  disturb  him  at  his  lonely 
meal. 

Julian's  head  was  aching  with  mortification,  passion, 
and  fatigue ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  but  one  thought 
to  which  he  could  turn,  and  that  this  was  a  thought 
of  weariness  and  pain.  He  dwelt  much  less  on  hia 
own  defeat  than  on  the  disappointment  which  he  knew 
it  would  cause  to  Violet  and  his  young  brothers.  He 
knew  well  that  Mrs.  Home  would  bear  it  with  equanim- 


166  BREVIS    FUROR. 

ity,  because  she  regarded  all  the  events  of  life,  however 
painful,  with  the  same  quiet  resignation,  and  trusted 
ever  in  the  gentle  dealing  and  loving  purposes  of  Hia 
hand  who  guides  them  all.  Poor  Julian  longed  to  be 
able  to  regard  it  in  this  light  too,  but  he  had  suffered 
the  angry  part  of  his  nature  to  gain  the  victory,  and 
his  human  reason  was  now  being  torn  by  his  lion 
heart. 

Unable  to  endure  the  notion  of  going  to  hall,  which 
would  be  a  painful  reminder  that  the  opportunity  to 
which  he  had  long  looked  for  emancipation  from  his 
sizarship  had  passed  by,  he  determined  to  take  some 
wine,  in  the  hope  that  it  would  support  him  till  the 
evening.  He  could  not  of  course  afford  to  give  wine 
parties,  but  he  always  kept  a  few  bottles  in  his  rooms 
for  medicinal  purposes,  or  to  offer  to  any  stranger  who 
might  come  to  visit  him.  Taking  out  a  decanter,  he 
sat  down  in  his  arm-chair,  and  drank  a  glass  or  two. 
The  wine  exhilarated  him  ;  as  he  had  scarcely  tasted 
anything  all  day,  it  got  rapidly  into  his  head,  and,  in  a 
few  minutes,  his  thoughts  seemed  in  a  tumult  of  de- 
lirious emotion.  Pride  and  passion  triumphed  over 
every  other  feeling ;  after  all,  what  was  the  scholarship 
to  him?  Tush  !  he  looked  for  better  things  in  life  than 
scholarships.  He  would  discard  the  petty  successes  of 
pedantry,  and  would  seek  a  loftier  greatness.  He  had 
been  a  fool  to  trouble  himself  about  such  trifles.  And 
as  these  arrogant  mists  clouded  his  fancy,  he  broke  out 
into  irregular  snatches  of  unmeaning  song. 

It  was  a  saint's-day  evening,  and  consequently  chapel 
was  at  a  quarter-past  six  instead  of  six,  and  the  under- 
graduates wore   surplices   in   cha])el   instead   of  theii 


JUST    IX    TIME.  1()7 

jrdinary  gowns.  On  saints'-days  there  is  always  a 
choral  service  at  St.  Werner's  College,  and  the  excel- 
lence of  the  choir  generally  attracted  a  large  congrega- 
tion. To  Julian,  who  Avas  fond  of  mu&ic,  these  saints - 
day  services  had  a  peculiar  interest ;  and  now  while  hia 
brain  was  swimming  with  the  fumes  of  wine,  he  determ- 
ined to  go  to  chapel,  and  imagined  to  himself  the 
pleasure  he  should  feel  in  striding  haughtily  through 
the  throng  of  men  up  the  long  aisle  to  the  sizars'  seat, 
to  show  hy  his  look  and  manner  that  his  courage  was 
undaunted,  and  that  his  self-confidence  rose  superior  to 
defeat.  Although  the  chapel  bell  had  not  yet  begun 
to  ring,  he  put  out  his  cap  and  surplice,  and  sat  down 
to  drink  more  wine. 

Just  as  the  clock  struck  six,  Lillyston  knocked  at 
Julian's  door. 

"Aha!  old  fellow,"  said  Julian,  "you  are  just  in 
time  to  have  a  glass  of  wine  before  chapel." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Lillyston,  coldly,  sick  at 
heart  to  see  a  fresh  proof  of  his  friend's  unworthy 
excitement,  but  without  realizing  as  yet  his  true  con- 
dition. 

"  Tush  !  you  think  I  care  about  that  trumpery  Clerk- 
land  ?  Not  I !  Won't  you  have  some  wine  ?  no  ? 
well,  I  shall,  and  then  I'm  going  to  chapel." 

His  flushed  countenance  and  excited  manner,  joined 
to  the  harsh  tones  of  his  generally  pleasant  and  musical 
voice,  produced  on  Lillyston's  mind  a  feeling  of  deep 
pain  and  shame ;  and  when  with  unsteady  hand  Julian 
endeavored  to  pour  out  for  himself  a  fresh  glass,  and 
in  doing  so,  spilt  the  wine  in  great  streams  over  the 
table,  Lillyston  saw  that   he  was   in  an  utterly  unfit 


168  THE    ONLY    QUARREL. 

state  to  go  to  cliapel,  and  that  the  attempt  to  do  so 
would  certainly  draw  upon  him  exposure  and  disgrace. 

"Julian,"  he  said,  gently;  "you  are  not  in  a  condi- 
tion to  go  to  chapel ;  you  must  not  think  of  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Julian,  with  a  stupid 
Btare. 

"I  mean,"  he  replied,  slowly,  "that  the  wine  has 
got  into  your  head." 

A  laugh,  half  hysterical,  half  defiant,  was  the  only 
answer,  and  Julian  hegan  to  put  on  his  surplice,  wrong 
side  out. 

"  Julian,  I  beg  of  you  to  stay  here  as  you  would 
avoid  ruin." 

"  Pooh  !  I  am  not  a  child  as  you  seem  to  think. 
You  are yes,  you  are  a  fool,  Lillyston." 

Pained  to  the  very  heart,  Lillyston  wavered  for  a 
moment,  but  a  glance  at  Julian  decided  him.  Five  years 
of  happy  uninterrupted  friendship,  five  years  during 
which  he  had  regarded  his  friend's  stainless  character 
with  ever-growing  pride  and  affection,  determined  him 
at  all  hazards  to  save  him  from  the  eff'ects  of  this  tem- 
porary possession.  Firmly,  but  quietly,  he  planted  his 
back  against  the  door,  and  said, — 

"  Dear  Julian,  I  beseech  you  not  to  go." 

The  tone  of  voice,  the  mention  of  his  own  name, 
recalled  Julian  for  a  moment,  but  the  sound  of  the 
ohapel  bell  renewed  his  determination,  and  he  answered, 
"Nonsense.     Come,  make  room," 

"  You  shall  not  go,  Julian." 

"But  I  will,"  shouted  he  angrily;  "how  dare  you 
prevent  me?  stand  aside." 

Lillyston  did  not  stir;  and,  rendered  furious  by  op- 


A    REMINISCENCE.  IG9 

position,  Julian  grappled  with  him.  It  required  all 
Lillyston's  strength  to  retain  his  position  against  this 
wild  assault,  but  he  managed  to  do  so  without  inflicting 
any  hurt;  and  when  Julian  paused,  Lillyston  noticed 
with  a  sense  of  relief  that  the  chapel  bell  had  ceased 
to  ring. 

"  I  WILL  go,"  said  Julian,  madly  renewing  the 
struggle.  But  with  all  his  efforts  he  could  not  stir 
Lillyston  from  the  door,  and  only  succeeded  in  tearing 
bis  surplice  from  the  neck  downward.  He  paused, 
and,  baffled  of  his  intention,  glared  at  his  opponent. 

"  The  clock  has  now  struck,"  said  Lillyston,  calmly, 
"  and  the  doors  will  be  shut.  You  are  too  late  to  get 
m. 

Julian  stamped  impatiently  on  the  floor,  and  pre- 
pared to  close  with  Lillyston  again,  but  now  Lillyston 
stepped  from  the  door,  and  as  he  slowly  went  out, 
turned  round  and  said, — 

"  Julian,  do  you  call  this  being  brave  or  strong  ? 
Can  you  let  one  disappointment  unman  you  so  utterly? 
'  Be  brave,  and  honest,  and  pure,  and  God  will  be 
with  you.'  "  The  words  flashed  into  light  from  the 
folded  pages  of  Julian's  memory,  and  with  them  the 
dim  image  of  a  dead  face  and  the  dying  echo  of  a 
father's  voice. 


15 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

MR.  GARDEN. 

"Pol  pudere  quam  pigere  pra^stat  totidem  literia.'' 

Plaut,  Trinum.,  II.  2. 

Who  has  not  felt,  Avho  does  not  know,  that  one  sin 
j'iolded  to,  that  one  passion  uncontrolled,  too  often 
brings  with  it  a  train  of  other  sins,  and  betrays  the 
drawbridge  of  the  citadel  to  a  thousand  enemies  beside '( 

It  had  been  so  with  Julian  Home,  and  in  proportion 
to  the  true  strength  and  beauty  of  his  character  was 
the  poignancy  of  his  bitterness  when  he  awoke  the  next 
morning,  and  calmly  reviewed  the  few  last  excited, 
prayerless,  and  unworthy  days.  Surely  after  so  many 
proofs  of  weakness,  surely  after  emotions  and  acts  so 
violently  inadequate  to  the  circumstances  which  had 
caused  them,  his  best  friends  must  despise  him  as 
utterly  as  he  despised  himself. 

He  arose  that  morning  strong  out  of  weakness.  lie 
determined  that  he  would  be  checked  no  longer  by  un- 
availing regrets,  and  that  his  repentance  should  be  open 
and  manly,  as  his  prostration  had  been  conspicuous. 
Fortified  by  the  humiliating  experience  of  his  own  want 
of  strength,  he  sought  for  help  in  resolute  determination 
and  earnest  prayer.  After  breakfast,  his  first  step  was 
to  call  on  Owen,  and  congratulate  hira  with  hearty  and 
(170) 


APOLOGIES.  171 

unaffected  sirapiicity  on  his  success — a  success  which 
Owen  generously  acknowledged  to  be  due  solely  to 
Julian's  misfortune.  It  was  much  more  difficult  to  call 
on  Hazlet,  but  this,  too,  Julian  felt  to  be  his  duty;  and 
distasteful  as  it  was,  he  would  not  shrink  from  per- 
forming it.  Hazlet  received  him  with  a  ludicrous  air 
of  offended  dignity,  and  was  barely  overcome  into  a  tone 
of  magnanimous  forgiveness  by  Julian's  frank  apology. 
On  the  whole,  Julian  decided  that  it  would  be  best  not 
to  call  on  Brogten,  lest,  by  so  doing,  he  should  seem 
to  be  reminding  him  of  the  consequences  of  his  enmity 
under  the  appearance  of  expressing  a  regret.  It  only 
remained  therefore  to  see  Lillyston,  and  to  this  visit 
Julian  looked  with  unmitigated  joy. 

"  Forgive  me,  Hugh,"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the 
room ;  "from  this  time  forward  I  shall  owe  you  a  new 
debt  of  gratitude  ;  you  have  saved  me  from  I  know  not 
what  disgrace." 

Lillyston  was  delighted  to  see  him  look  like  his  old 
self  once  more.  The  thunder-cloud  which  had  been 
hanging  on  his  brow  was  dissipated,  and  the  sullen 
expression  had  wholly  passed. 

"Don't  talk  of  debt,  Julian,"  he  said;  "between 
friends,  you  know,  there  are  no  obligations — they  are 
merged  in  the  friendship  itself." 

"  I  am  amazed  at  my  own  intolerable  folly,  Hugh. 
I  hope  this  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  yield  to  such 
storms  of  passion.     1  nave  much  to  be  ashamed  of. 

"Well,  Julian,"  said  Lillyston,  changing  the  subject; 
"you  mustn't  think  any  more  of  this  Clerkland,  for 
potentially  you  got  it,  as  everybody  acknowledges; 
dvvdfist  you  were  successful,  if  not  w^" 


172  AN    INVITATION. 

"I  don't  mean  to  let  it  discourage  me,"  said  Julian, 
"though  the  potential  is  mightily  different  from  the 
actual."  Nor  did  he  suffer  it  to  discourage  him,  or 
weaken  his  endeavors.  His  life  soon  began  to  flow 
once  more  in  its  usual,  even,  and  quiet  course.  It  did 
not  take  him  long  to  discover  that  it  was  possible  to 
live  happily  without  the  Clerkland,  and  he  wondered 
in  himself  at  the  intensity  of  the  desire  to  obtain  it, 
which  he  had  suffered  to  overpower  him.  He  felt  no 
touch  of  envy  toward  Owen,  whose  friendship  be  began 
to  value  more  and  more,  and  who  voluntarily  told  him, 
from  information  that  he  had  derived  from  the  examiners 
themselves,  that  the  decision  had  long  hung  in  a  doubtful 
scale.  In  fact,  the  scholarship  would  have  been  divided 
between  both  of  them  but  for  one  of  the  examiners,  who 
hardly  appreciated  Julian's  merits.  It  was  so  well  un- 
derstood that  Julian  must  have  been  the  successful  can- 
didate but  for  the  one  fatal  paper  on  Monday  morning, 
that  he  rather  gained  than  lost  in  reputation  from  the 
result  of  the  competition. 

It  was  a  few  days  after  these  events  that  Julian 
received  from  Mr.  Garden  a  pressing  invitation  to  spend 
a  Sunday  with  him  at  Harton.  Glad  of  a  change,  he 
easily  obtained  an  exeat,  and  went  down  on  the  Satur- 
day morning.  Even  the  half  year  since  he  had  left 
had  made  a  perceptible  change  in  the  old  place.  There 
were  many  new  faces,  and  many  old  ones  had  disap- 
peared, so  that,  already,  he  began  to  feel  himself  half 
a  stranger  among  the  familiar  scenes.  But  alike  from 
boys  and  masters  he  received  a  kindly  greeting,  and 
Mr.  Garden  entertained  him  with  a  pleasant  and  genial 
hospitality.      The   only  thing  which    pained  him  waa 


A    FAREWELL    PRESENT.  178 

the  obvious  change  for  the  -worse  in  Mr.  Carden'a 
health.  He  wore  a  sadder  expression  than  of  old, 
and  though  he  made  no  remark  about  his  heakh,  yet 
every  now  and  then  his  face  seemed  to  be  suddenly 
contracted  by  a  throb  of  pain. 

On  the  Monday  morning,  when  it  was  necessary  for 
Julian  to  return  to  Camford,  Mr.  Garden  called  him  into 
his  study  after  breakfast,  and  asked  him  to  choose  any 
book  he  liked,  as  a  farewell  present,  from  the  shelves. 

"But  why  a  farewell  present,  Mr.  Garden?"  asked 
Julian,  laughing.  "Aren't  you  ever  going  to  ask  mo 
to  Harton  again?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Garden,  with  a  sad  smile,  "never 
again.  I  resign  my  mastership  at  the  end  of  this  term," 
he  continued,  in  answer  to  Julian's  inquiring  look; 
"  my  health  is  so  uncertain  that  I  feel  unequal  any 
longer  to  these  most  arduous,  most  responsible  duties. 
Perhaps,  too,"  he  added,  "  I  may  be  a  little  disap- 
pointed in  the  result  of  my  labors ;  but,  at  any  rate, 
though  as  yet  few  are  aware  of  it,  this  is  my  last  month 
at  Harton — so  choose  one  of  my  books,  Julian,  as  a 
farewell  present." 

Julian  expressed  his  real  sorrow  at  Mr.  Garden's 
failing  health.  "If  you  go  away,"  he  said,  "it  will 
eeem  as  if  the  chief  tie  which  bound  me  to  dear  old 
Harton  was  suddenly  snapped."  He  chose  as  his  me- 
mento a  small  volume  of  sermons  Avhich  Mr.  Garden 
had  published  in  former  days,  and  asked  him  to  write 
his  name  on  the  title-page. 

"Yes,"  said  the  master,  "ycu  shall  have  that  book, 
\f  you  like ;  but  I  mean  you  to  have  also  a  more  sub- 

15* 


174  COLERIDGE. 

Btantial  memorial  of  my  library.  Here,  Julian,  this 
book  I  always  destined  to  be  yours  some  day  ;  you 
.  may  as  well  have  it  now." 

He  took  down  from  the  shelves  a  richly-bound  copy 
of  Coleridge's  works,  in  ten  volumes,  which  Julian 
knew  to  be  the  one  book  of  his  library  which  be  most 
deeply  prized.  His  marginal  comments  enriched  almost 
every  page;  and  Julian  was  ashamed  to  take  what  he 
knew  that  the  owner  so  highly  valued. 

"  But  I  thought  you  told  me  once  that  you  were 
thinking  of  publishing  a  biography  of  Coleridge,  and 
an  edition  of  his  writings,"  said  Julian.  "  Surely,  sir, 
you  will  want  these  MS.  notes,  won't  you?" 

"  Ah,  Julian  ;  that  is  one  of  the  many  plans  which 
have  floated  through  my  mind  unfulfilled.  My  life,  I 
fear,  will  have  been  an  incomplete  one.  Thank  God, 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  necessary  man — il  ny 
a  point  d'hommes  necessaires  ;  others  will  be  found  to 
do  a  thousandfold  better  the  work  which  I  had  pur- 
posed to  do."  And  then  he  murmured  half  to  him- 
self— 

"  Till,  in  due  time,  one  by  one, 

Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds  as  well 

undone, 
Death  came  suddenly,  and  took  them  where  men  never  see  tho 

sun." 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  "No,"  he  said,  "  taku 
the  book,  Julian.  If  it  does  you  all  the  good  it  has 
done  me,  it  will  have  been  more  useful  than  I  could 
ever  have  made  it.  And  when  you  hang  on  the  elo- 
quent and  earnest  words  of  the  great  poet-philosopher, 
mingle  his  teachings  with  some  few  memories  of  me ;  it 


A    DROP    OF    MYRRH THE    LAST    LETTER.         175 

5V,11  bo  like  a  drop  of  myrrh,  perhaps,  in  the  cup,  bui 

1  should  like,"  he  added,  with  faltering  voice,  "to 

leave  at  least  one  to  think  of  me  with  affection." 

He  turned  away  as  his  old  pupil  grasped  his  hand ; 
and  Julian,  as  he  went  back  in  the  train  to  Camford, 
could  not  help  a  feeling  of  real  pity  that  one  so  gener- 
ous and  upright  in  heart  and  life  should  be  destined  to 
so  lonely  and  sorrowful  a  lot. 

As  he  had  said,  he  resigned  his  Harton  mastership 
at  the  end  of  the  term,  and  sailed  to  Madeira,  for  hia 
health.  He  begged  Julian  to  continue  his  correspond- 
ence with  him,  and  to  tell  him  all  about  his  old  Harton 
and  Camford  friends. 

During  Easter  week,  wdiile  Julian  was  at  Ildown,  h«3 
receive^  from  him  •^  letter  to  tlie  followinji  effect: — 


!-) 


"Dkak  Julian — 1  was  not  mistaken  m  hinting, 
while  you  were  at  Harton,  that  we  should  never  meet 
again.  1  am  on  my  death-bed  ;  and,  in  all  probability, 
the  raf^d  decline  which  is  now  wasting  my  powers,  and 
which,  while  I  write,  shakes  me  with  painful  fits  of 
coughing,  will  have  terminated  my  life  before  this  let- 
ter reaches  your  hands. 

"  I  leave  life,  1  hope,  with  simple  resignation ;  and, 
although  I  have  left  undone  much  whicii  I  hoped  to 
have  accomplished,  yet  I  die  trusting  in  God.  My 
friends  in  this  world  have  been  few,  and  my  fortunes 
have  not  been  bright,  yet  happiness  has  largely  pre- 
ponderated even  in  my  destiny,  and  I  look  on  the 
death  which  is  approaching  as  the  commencement,  not 
as  the  end  of  true  existence. 

"  But  I  did  not  write  to  y(  u,  dear  Julian,  to  tell  you 


ilQ  MR.  GARDEN. 

of  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  death  finds  me.  1  wrote 
to  bid  you  farewell,  and  to  tell  you  of  something  which 
concerns  you — I  mean  my  intention,  recently  adopted, 
of  leaving  you  my  small  private  fortune,  and  the  added 
earnings  which  my  labors  have  procured.  Together, 
they  amount  only  to  £10,000,  but  I  hope  that  they 
may  be  of  real  service  to  you.  Had  you  still  been 
the  heir  to  your  aunt's  property,  perhaps  even  if  you 
had  got  the  Clerkland,  I  should  have  disposed  of  this 
money  in  some  other  way ;  but  as  these  events  have 
been  ordered  otherwise,  and  as  I  have  no  relations  of 
my  own  who  need  the  legacy,  nor  any  friend  in  whose 
welfare  I  take  a  deeper  interest  than  in  yours,  it  gives 
me  a  gleam  of  real  satisfaction  to  be  able  to  place  at 
your  disposal  this  little  sum. 

"  Good-by,  dear  Julian.  When  these  words  meet 
your  eye,  I  expect  to  be  in  that  state  Avhere  even  your 
prayers  can  benefit  me  no  more.  But  I  know  your 
affectionate  and  grateful  heart,  and  I  know  that  you 
will  sometimes  recur  with  a  thought  of  kindness  to  the 
memory  of  your  affectionate  friend, 

"  Henry  Garden." 

The  next  mail  brought  the  news  of  Mr.  Garden's 
death.  It  caused  many  a  sorrowing  heart  both  at 
Harton  and  Gamford.  Mr.  Garden  was  a  man  whose 
impetuous  and  enthusiastic  disposition  had  caused  him 
10  commit  many  serious  errors  in  life,  and  these  had 
been  a  barrier  to  the  success  which  must  otherwise  have 
rewarded  his  energy  and  talent.  But  even  among  those 
who  were  envious  of  his  ability,  and  offended  by  hia 
eccentricities,  they  were  few  who  did  not  do  justice  to 


TUE    LEGACY.  177 

ihe  rectitude  of  his  motives,  and  none  who  did  no*,  ad 
mit  the  warmila  of  his  affections.  There  were  more  to 
mourn  over  his  untimely  death  than  there  had  been  to 
forgive  the  mistakes  he  made,  and  by  wise  and  friendly 
counsel  to  raise  him  to  that  height  which  he  might 
easily  have  obtained.  And  among  the  crowd  who  had 
known  him,  and  the  many  who  honored  him,  there 
were  some  who  loved  him  with  no  ordinary  love,  and 
who  were  not  too  proud  to  admit  the  obligation  of  a 
permanent  gratitude.  It  was  one  of  the  great  happi- 
nesses of  Mr.  Garden's  life  that  of  this  number  was 
Julian  Home. 

With  a  clear  ,£300  a  year  of  his  own,  it  was  of  course 
unnecessary  for  Julian  to  return  to  St.  Werner's  as  a 
sizar,  and  he  at  once  wrote  to  his  tutor  to  beg  that  his 
name  misht  be  removed  from  the  list.  There  was  one 
respect  in  which  he  found  this  a  very  material  addition 
to  his  comfort  and  happiness.  As  the  sizars  dined  an 
hour  later  than  the  other  men,  and  at  a  separate  table, 
he  had  been  by  this  means  cut  off  from  the  society  of 
many  of  his  friends  in  hall,  where  men  have  more  op- 
portunities of  meeting  and  becoming  irtimate  than  any- 
where else.  It  was  no  slight  addition  ':o  his  happiness 
to  sit  perpetually  with  the  group  of  friends  he  valued 
most. 

"  I've  got  a  magnificant  plan  for  the  Long,  Julian," 
said  Kennedy  to  him  one  day,  as  they  left  the  hall. 
"  My  father  is  going  to  Switzerland  for  three  months, 
with  ray  sister  Eva  and  me.  Eva  goes  under  the  wing 
of  an  aunt  of  mine,  Mrs.  Dudley,  whom  I  think  you 
met  at  Ildown  once.     Won't  you  come  with  us  ?" 

The    proposal  was  very  tempting,  the   more   so   as 


178  A    PLEASANT    SCHEME. 

Julian  had  never  been  abroad.  He  mentioned  it  in 
his  next  letter  home,  and  asked  if  it  would  be  possible 
for  any  of  them  to  accompany  him,  without  which  he 
gave  up  all  intention  of  making  the  tour.  In  reply, 
Mrs.  Home  proposed  that  Violet  should  go,  if  Mrs. 
Dudley  would  kindly  chaperone  her,  because  the  trip 
would  be  of  great  advantage  to  her  in  many  ways ; 
and  that  Cyril  should  go,  as  a  reward  for  his  industry 
and  success  at  Marlby.  "As  for  Frankie  and  me," 
she  continued,  "  we  will  stay  at  home  to  take  care  of 
Hdown  in  your  absence.  Frank  is  too  young  to  enjoy 
traveling,  and  I  have  but  little  desire  for  it ;  we  two 
will  stay  behind,  and  I  dare  say  we  shall  be  very  happy, 
especially  if  you  write  us  long  accounts  of  all  your 
proceedings." 

So  this  most  delightful  plan  was  definitely  adopted, 
and  all  concerned  were  full  of  the  happiest  anticipa- 
tions. Kennedy  and  Julian  looked  forward  to  it  with 
the  utmost  eagerness ;  Violet,  who  had  already  grown 
fond  of  Mrs.  Dudley  and  Eva,  was  charmed  at  the 
prospect,  and  Cyril,  with  all  a  boy's  eagerness  for 
novelty,  was  well-nigh  wild  with  joy. 

But  as  yet  six  weeks  were  to  elapse  before  the  L^ng 
commenced. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Kennedy's    dishonor. 

"  I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening  face 
Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold, 
Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine,  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.     .     .    Alas  !  one  hour's  disgrace  i" 
Egbert  Browning.     Childe  Roland 

"  I  AM  very  doubtful,  after  all,  Julian,  whether  I  shall 
be  one  of  the  Switzerland  party,"  said  Kennedy,  with 
a  sigh,  as  he  and  Julian  were  walking  round  the  St. 
Werner's  gardens  one  bright  evening  of  the  May  term. 
The  limes  and  chestnuts  were  unfolding  their  tender 
sprays  of  springtide  emerald,  the  willows  shivered  as 
their  green  buds  made  ripples  in  the  water,  and  the 
soft  light  of  sunset  streamed  over  towers  and  colleges, 
giving  a  rich  glow  to  the  broad  windows  of  the  library, 
and  bathing  in  its  rosy  tinge  the  white  plumage  of  the 
swans  upon  the  river.  The  friends  were  returning 
from  a  walk,  during  which  they  had  thoroughly  enjoyed 
the  blue  and  golden  weather.  Up  to  this  time  Ken- 
nedy had  seemed  to  be  in  the  highest  spirits,  and  Julian 
was  astonished  at  the  melanchloy  tone  in  which  the 
»rords  were  spoken. 

"  Doubtful  ?     Why  ?  '  said  Julian,  quickly. 

(179) 


180  A    CONDITION. 

"  Because  my  father  has  made  it  conditional  on  my 
getting  a  first  class  in  the  May  examination." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  there  is  not  the  ghost  of  a 
doubt  of  your  doing  that." 

"  I  don't  feel  so  sure." 

'*•  Why,  there  are  often  thirty  in  the  first  class  in  the 
freshman's  year  ;  and  just  as  \i you  wouldn't  be  among 
them  !" 

"All  very  well ;  I  know  that  anybody  can  do  it  who 
works ;  but  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  haven't  read 
one  of  the  books  yet." 

"  Haven't  you,  really  ?  Well,  then,  for  goodness' 
sake,  lose  no  more  time." 

"But  there's  only  a  fortnight  to  the  examination." 

"  My  dear  Kennedy,  Avhat  have  you  been  doing  to 
be  so  idle  ?" 

"  Somehow  or  other  the  time  manages  to  slip  away. 
Heigh  ho  !"  said  Kennedy,  "  my  first  year  at  college 
nearly  over,  and  nothing  done — nothing  done !  How 
quickly  the  time  has  gone  !" 

"Yes,"  said  Julian; 


"  '  Tz-ipoya^  yap  i-ujiiaoia^  (piptt, 


xa/jL/jis^  ^paduzspot  za  Tzozr^p.tya  Gu).Xa^^v^ 

as  Theocritus  prettily  observes." 

Seized  with  the  strong  determination  not  only  to 
pass  the  examination,  but  even  to  excel  in  it,  Kennedy 
devoted  the  next  fortnight  to  unremitted  study  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  been  an  undergraduate.  But 
the  more  he  read  the  more  painfully  he  became  aware 
of  his  own  deficiencies,  and  the  more  bitterly  he  de 
plored  the  waste  of  time.     He  seemed  to  be  toiling  ii 


"PUl'TING    ON    A    SPURT."  181 

vain  after  the  opportunities  he  had  h)st.  ITo  knew 
that  the  examination,  though  limited  in  subjects,  was 
searching  in  character,  and  he  found  it  impossible  to 
acquire,  by  a  sudden  impulse,  what  he  should  have 
learned  by  continuous  diligence.  As  the  time  drew 
nearer,  he  grew  more  and  more  nervous.  He  had  set 
his  heart  on  the  Swiss  tour,  and  it  now  seemed  to  him 
painfully  probable  that  he  would  fail  in  fulfilling  the 
condition  which  his  father  had  exacted,  and  without 
which  he  well  knew  that  Mr.  Kennedy  would  insist  on 
his  spending  the  vacation  either  at  Caraford  or  at  home. 

Of  the  three  main  subjects  for  examination  he  had 
succeeded  by  desperate  effort,  aided  by  natural  ability, 
in  very  quickly  mastering  two  sufficiently  well  to  secure 
a  creditable  result ;  but  the  third  subject,  the  Aga- 
memnon of  ^schylus,  remained  nearly  untouched,  and 
Kennedy  was  too  good  and  accurate  a  scholar  not  to 
be  aware  that  the  most  careful  and  elaborate  study  wag 
indispensable  to  an  even  tolerable  understanding  of 
that  master-piece  of  Grecian  tragedy.  Besides  this,  he 
had  a  hatred  of  slovenly  and  superficial  work,  and  he 
therefore  determined  to  leave  the  ^schjlus  untouched, 
while,  at  the  same  time,  he  was  quite  conscious  that  if 
he  did  so,  all  chance  of  distinction,  and  even  all  chance 
of  a  first  class  were  out  of  the  question.  With  some 
shame  he  reflected  over  this  proof,  that,  for  all  pur- 
poses of  study,  a  third  of  his  academical  life  had  been 
utterly  and  wholly  lost. 

As  he  had  decided  on  giving  up  the  ^schylus,  it 
became  more  imperative  to  make  sure  of  the  Tacitua 
and  Demosthenes,  and  he  therefore  went  to  Mr.  Gray- 
son's rooms  to  get  a  library  order  which  should  entitle 

16 


182  WAITING    FOR    ADMISSION. 

him  to  take  from  tlue  St.  Werner's  library  any  bjoka 
that  would  be  most  likely  to  give  him  effectual  helj). 

At  the  moment  of  his  arrival,  Mr.  Grayson  wa*! 
engaged,  and  he  was  shown  into  another  room  until 
he  should  be  ready.  This  room  was  the  tutor's  library, 
and  like  many  of  the  rooms  in  Camford,  it  opened  into 
an  inner  and  smaller  study,  the  door  of  which  was 
partly  open. 

Kennedy  sat  down,  and  after  a  few  minutes,  as  there 
seemed  to  be  no  signs  that  he  would  be  summoned  im- 
mediately, he  began  to  grow  very  restless.  He  tried 
some  of  the  books  on  the  table,  but  they  were  all  un- 
speakably dull ;  he  looked  at  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 
but  they  were  most  of  them  the  likenesses  of  Camford 
celebrities,  which  he  already  knew  by  heart ;  he  looked 
out  of  the  window,  but  the  court  was  empty,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  see.  Reflecting  that  the  only  thing 
which  can  really  induce  ennui  in  a  sensible  man,  is  to 
be  kept  waiting  when  he  is  very  busy  for  an  indefijiite 
period,  which  may  terminate  at  any  moment,  and  may 
last  for  almost  any  length  of  time,  Kennedy,  vexed  at 
the  interruption  of  his  work,  chose  the  most  comforta- 
ble arm-chair  in  the  room,  and  settled  himself  in  it 
with  a  yawn. 

At  this  moment,  as  ill  fate  would  have  it,  his  eye 
caught  sight  of  a  book  lying  on  Mr.  Grayson's  reading- 
desk.  Lazily  rising  to  see  what  it  was,  he  found  it  to 
be  an  ^schylus,  and  turned  over  the  leaves  with  a 
feeling  of  listless  indifference.  Between  two  of  the 
leaves  lay  a  written  paper,  and  suddenly,  after  reading 
two  or  |:hree  lilies,  he  observed  it  to  be  a  manuscript 


SUDDEN    TEMPTAIION.  188 

i3(my  of  the  much  dreaded  Agamemnon  paper  for  the 
May  examination. 

Temptation  had  surprised  him  with  sudden  and  un- 
expected violence.  He  little  knew  that  on  this  idle 
weary  moment  rested  the  destiny  of  many  years. 

As  when  in  a  hostile  country  one  has  laid  aside  his 
armor,  and  from  unregarded  ambush  the  enemy  leaps 
on  him,  and,  though  he  be  strong  and  noble,  stabs  him 
with  a  festering  wound,  so  this  temptation  to  a  base  act 
sprang  on  poor  Kennedy,  when  he  was  unarmed  and 
unprepared.  In  the  gayeties  of  life,  and  the  bright- 
nesses of  hope,  and  the  securities  of  unbroken  enjoy- 
ment, he  had  long  been  trusting  in  himself  only,  in  his 
own  high  principle,  his  own  generous  impulses,  his  own 
unstained  honor.  But  these  were  never  sufficient  for 
any  human  being  yet,  and  they  snapped  in  an  instant 
under  this  unhappy  boy. 

The  only  honorable  thing  to  do,  the  thing  which,  at 
another  moment,  Kennedy  might  have  done,  and  which 
any  man  would  have  done,  whose  right  instincts  and 
high  character  had  the  reliable  support  of  higher  prin- 
ciples than  mere  personal  self-confidence  and  pride, 
would  have  been  to  shut  the  book  instantly,  informed 
Mr.  Grayson  that  he  had  accidentally  read  one  of  the 
questions,  and  beg  him  to  change  it  before  the  exam- 
ination. This  Kennedy  knew  well ;  it  flashed  before 
him  in  an  instant  as  the  only  proper  course ;  but,  at 
the  same  instant,  he  passionately  obliterated  the  sug- 
gestion from  his  mind,  fiercely  stifled  the  impulse  to  do 
right,  choked  the  rebukes  of  honor  and  principle,  and 
blindly  willed  to  save  his  reputation  as  a  scholar,  and 
•.lis  chance  of  enjoyment  for  the  vacation,  by  reading 


184  "  CONSCIENTIA    URILLE    TESTES.' 

through  the  entire  number  of  the  questions.  The  men- 
tal  struggle  did  not  last  an  instant,  for  the  emotions  of 
the  spirit  belong  only  to  eternity,  and  the  guilt  of  hu- 
man actions  is  not  commensurate  with  the  length  of 
time  they  occupy.  But  in  the  intense  wish  to  see 
what  the  examination  would  be  like,  and  to  secure  his 
first  class,  Kennedy  repressed  altogether,  by  one  blow, 
the  moral  element  of  his  being,  and  concentrated  his 
whole  intellect  on  the  paper  before  him.  To  read  it 
through  was  the  work  of  a  minute ;  when  it  was  read 
through,  it  was  too  late  to  wish  the  act  undone,  and, 
without  suflferino;  himself  to  dwell,  or  even  to  recur  in 
thought  to  the  nature  of  his  proceedings,  Kennedy  de- 
liberately read  through  the  whole  paper  a  second  time. 

But  this  imperious  effort  of  the  will  was  not  exer- 
cised without  visible  effects.  Absorbed  as  he  was  in 
seizing  every  prominent  subject  in  the  questions,  his 
forehead  contracted,  his  hands  shook,  his  knees  trem- 
bled, and  his  heart  palpitated  with  violence.  He  ob- 
served nothing;  he  did  not  notice  the  shadow  that 
checkered  the  sunlight  streaming  from  the  door  of 
the  inner  room ;  nor  did  he  hear  the  light  step  which 
passed  over  the  carpet ;  he  did  not  feel  the  breath  of  a 
man  who  stood  behind  him,  looked  over  his  shoulder, 
watched  his  eager  determination  to  secure  the  unfair 
advantage,  smiled  at  his  agitation,  and  then  slipped 
back  again  into  the  inner  room,  unnoticed  as  before. 

It  was  done.  Not  a  question  but  was  printed  indeli- 
bly on  Kennedy's  memory.  Quickly,  fearfully,  he  shut 
the  book,  and  glided  back  to  the  arm-chair,  in  the  vain 
attempt  to  look  and  feel  at  eas(!. 

At  ease  !  no,  now  the  tumult  broke.     Now  Kennedj 


A    SHADOW    ON    THE    FLOOB.  ISt 

hated  himself;  called  himself  mean,  vile,  contemplible, 
a  reptile,  a  cheat.  Now  his  insulted  honor  began  tc 
vindicate  his  rights,  and  his  trampled  sense  of  truth  to 
spring  up  with  a  menacing  bound,  and  his  conscience  to 
speak  out  calmly  and  clearly  the  language  of  self-con- 
demnation and  contempt.  Good  Heavens!  how  could 
he  have  sunk  so  low?  Fancy  if  Julian  had  seen  him.  or 
could  know  his  meanness.  Fancy  if  anybody  had  seen 
him.  Hazlet,  or  Fitzurse,  or  Brogten  himself,  could 
hardly  have  been  guilty  of  a  more  dishonorable  act. 

You  miserable  souls,  that  do  not  know  what  honor 
is,  or  what  torments  rend  a  truly  noble  heart,  if  ever 
it  be  led  to  commit  an  act  which  to  your  seared  con 
sciences  and  muddy  intelligence  appears  a  trivial  sin, 
or  even  no  sin  at  all ;  you,  the  mean  men  to  whom  an 
offense  like  this  is  so  common,  that,  unless  it  were  dis- 
covered, it  would  not  trouble  your  recollections  with  a 
feather's  weight  of  remorse, — for  you,  I  scorn  to  write, 
and  I  scorn  from  my  inmost  being  the  sneer  with  which 
you  will  regard  the  agony  that  Kennedy  suffered  from 
his  fall.  But,  to  the  high  and  the  generous,  who  have 
erred,  and  have  bewailed  their  error  in  secret, — to 
them  I  appeal  to  imagine  the  anguish  of  self-reproach, 
the  bitterness  of  humiliation,  which  stung  him  in  those 
few  moments  after  his  first  dishonor.  It  is  the  lofty 
tower  that  falls  with  the  heaviest  crash  ;  it  is  the  stately 
soul  that  suffers  the  deepest  abasement ;  it  is  the  white 
scutcheon  on  which  the  dark  stain  seems  to  wear  its 
darkest  hue. 

He   had  not  sat  there  for  many  minutes — though  to 
him  they  seemed  like  hours — when  a  step  on  the  stairs 

IG* 


186  EXIT    BKOGTBN. 

told  him  that  his  tutor's  visitor  had  departed,  and  tb^i 
gyp  blandly  entering,  observed, — 

"Now,  sir,  Mr.  Grayson  can  see  you." 

"  Oh  !  very  well,"  said  Kennedy,  rising  and  assum- 
ing, with  a  painful  effort,  his  most  indifferent  look  and 
tone. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Kennedy,  my  turn  first ;  I  have 
been  waiting  longest,"  said  a  harsh  voice  behind  him, 
that  sounded  mockingly  to  his  excited  ear.  He  turned 
sharply  round,  and,  with  a  low  bow  and  a  curl  on  the 
protruding  lip,  and  a  little  guttural  laugh,  Brogten  came 
from  the  inner  room,  and  passed  before  him  into  Mr. 
Grayson's  presence. 

If  a  thunder-bolt  had  suddenly  fallen  before  Ken- 
nedy's feet  and  cloven  its  sulphureous  passage  into  the 
abyss,  he  could  hardly  have  been  more  startled  or  more 
alarmed.  Without  a  word  he  sat  down  half  stupefied. 
Was  any  one  else  in  the  inner  room  ?  For  very  shame 
he  dare  not  look.  Had  Brogten  seen  him  ?  If  so, 
would  he  at  once  tell  Mr.  Grayson  ?  What  would  be 
done  in  that  case  ?  Dare  he  deny  the  fact?  Passion- 
ately he  spurned  the  hateful  suggestion.  Would  Brogten 
tell  all  the  St.  Werner's  men  ?  Brogten  of  all  others, 
whom  he  had  publicly  insulted  and  branded  with  dis- 
honor !  Ah  me,  there  is  no  anguish  so  keen,  so  deadly, 
as  the  anguish  of  awakened  shame  ! 

With  unspeakable  anxiety  Kennedy  awaited  Brog- 
ten's  departure.  Why  should  he  be  so  long?  Surely 
fie  must  be  telling  Mr.  Grayson. 

At  last  the  heavy  step  was  heard,  the  door  opened, 
and  the  gyp  once  more  announced  that  Mr.  Grayson 
was  disengaged. 


WILL    HE    TELL?  187 

Pale  and  ahhost  breathless,  Kennedy  went  into  the 
room. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Kennedy." 

**  Good  morning,  sir." 

He  quite  expected  that  Mr.  Grayson  was  about  at 
once  to  address  him  on  the  subject  of  the  paper,  and, 
expecting  this,  totally  forgot  the  purpose  for  which  he 
had  come.  The  tutor's  cold  eye  was  upon  him,  and 
after  a  pause  he  said, — 

"Well,  Mr.  Kennedy?" 

"Well,  sir?"  he  replied,  with  a  start. 

"  Do  you  want  anything  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  came  for Really,  sir,  I  must  beg  your 

pardon,  but  I  have  forgotten  what  it  was."  "  To  look 
at  an  examination  paper,"  were  the  words  which,  in 
his  embarrassment,  sprang  to  his  lips,  but  he  checked 
them  just  in  time. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Kennedy,  you  appear  to  be  strangely 
absent  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Grayson,  in  a  tone  the 
reverse  of  encouraging. 

"Oh,  I  remember  now,"  he  replied,  desperately; 
•'it  was  a  library  order  I  w^anted." 

Mr.  Grayson  wrote  him  the  order.  Kennedy  took 
it,  and,  without  even  shaking  the  cold  hand  which  the 
tutor  proffered,  hurried  out  of  the  room,  relieved  at 
least  by  the  conviction  that  Brogten,  if  he  had  seen 
him  look  at  the  paper,  had  not,  as  yet,  at  any  rate, 
revealed  it  to  the  examiner. 

"After  all,"  he  reflected,  "  he  was  hardly  likely  to 
do  that.     But  had  he  told  the  men  ?" 

Kennedy  did  not  go  to  the  library ;  he  could  not 
hear  to  meet  anybody,  and  hastened  to  bury  himself  in 


188  ANYTHING    BUT    DETECTION. 

his  own  rcioms.  His  walk,  usually  so  erect  and  gay  as 
he  went  across  the  court — the  tune  he  used  to  hum  so 
merrily  in  the  sunshine — and  the  bright  open  glance 
of  recognition  with  which  he  passed  his  acquaintances 
and  friends,  were  gone  to-day.  He  shuffled  silently 
along  the  cloisters  with  downcast  eyes. 

Hall  time  would  be  the  time  to  know  whether  Brog- 
ten  had  seen  him  and  betrayed  him.  And  if  he  had 
seen  him,  surely  there  could  be  no  doubt  he  would  tell 
of  him.  What  a  sweet  revenge  it  would  be  for  that 
malicious  heart !  how  completely  it  Avould  turn  the 
tables  on  Kennedy  for  the  day  when  he  had  sarcas- 
tically alluded  to  Brogten's  bets  !  how  amply  it  would 
fulfill  the  promise  of  which  that  parting  scowl  of  hatred 
had  been  full. 

He  went  to  hall  rather  late  on  purpose ;  and,  instead 
of  sitting  in  his  usual  place  near  Julian,  he  chose  a 
vacant  place  at  another  table.  Half  a  minute  sufficed 
to  show  him  that  there  was  no  difference  in  his  recep- 
tion ;  the  same  frequent  nods  and  smiles  from  all  sides 
still  gave  him  the  frank  greeting  of  which,  as  a  popular 
man,  he  was  always  sure.  He  looked  round  to  Brogten, 
but  could  make  nothing  of  his  face ;  it  simply  wore  a 
somewhat  slight  smile  when  their  eyes  met,  and  Ken- 
nedy's fell.  Kennedy  began  to  convince  himself  that 
Brogten  could  not  have  seen  what  he  had  done  in  Mr, 
Grayson's  room. 

The  thought  rolled  away  a  great  load — a  heavy,  in- 
tolerable load  from  his  heart.  It  was  not  that  with  him. 
as  with  so  many  thousands,  the  fear  of  discovery  con- 
stituted the  sense  of  sin,  but  young  as  he  was,  and  high 
as  his  character  had  stood  hitherto  in  man's  estimation, 


SOLD — FOR    NAUGHT.  189 

lie  prayocl  for  any  chastisement  rather  than  that  of 
detection,  any  stroke  in  preference  to  open  shame.  Thia 
was  the  one  thing  which  he  felt  he  could  not  bear. 

Even  now,  as  conscience  strongly  suggested,  ho 
might  make,  by  private  confession  to  his  tutor,  or  at 
any  rate  by  not  using  the  knowledge  he  had  thus 
acquired,  the  only  reparation  which  was  still  in  his 
power.  But  it  was  a  hard  thing  for  conscience  to  ask 
■ — too  hard  for  poor  Kennedy's  weakness.  Much  of 
the  paper,  as  he  saw  at  once,  he  could  very  easily  have 
answered  from  his  previous  general  knowledge  and 
scholarship ;  so  easily,  that  he  now  felt  convinced  that 
he  might  have  done  quite  enough  of  it  to  secure  his 
first  class.  His  sin,  then,  had  been  useless,  quite  use- 
less, worse  than  useless  to  him.  Was  he  oblicied  also 
to  make  it  positively  injurious  ?  was  he  to  put  himself 
in  a  worse  position  than  if  he  had  never  committed  it  ? 
After  all  the  punishment  which  the  sin  had  brought 
with  it,  was  he  also  to  lose,  in  consequence  of  it,  the 
very  advantage,  the  very  enjoyment,  for  the  sake  of 
which  he  had  harbored  the  temptation?  It  was  too 
much — too  much  to  expect. 

The  night  before  the  ^schylus  examination  he  began 
to  read  up  the  general  information  on  the  subject,  and 
be  intended  to  do  it  quite  as  if  he  were  unaware  of 
what  the  actual  questions  were  to  be.  But  it  was  the 
merest  self-deception.  Each  question  was  branded  in 
fiery  letters  on  his  recollection,  and  he  found  that,  aa 
read,  he  was  skipping  involuntarily  every  topic  which 
he  knew  had  not  been  touched  on  in  Mr.  Grayson's 
paper. 

Oh   the   sense  of  hypocrisy  with  which  he  eagerly 


190  THE    SINS    OF    GENIUS. 

seized  tlie  paper  next  morning,  and  read  it  over  as 
though  unaware  of  its  contents  ! 

Julian  could  not  help  observing  that,  during  the  last 
few  days,  Kennedy's  spirits  had  suffered  a  change. 
His  old  mirth  came  only  in  fitful  bursts,  and  he  was 
often  moody  and  silent ;  but  Julian  attributed  it  to 
anxiety  for  the  result  of  the  examination,  and  doubt 
whether  he  should  be  allowed  by  his  father  to  make  one 
of  the  long  anticipated  party  in  the  foreign  tour. 

Kennedy  dared  not  admit  any  one  into  his  confi- 
dence, but  the  last  evening,  before  they  went  down,  he 
turned  the  conversation,  as  he  sat  at  tea  in  Owen's 
room,  to  the  topic  of  character,  and  the  faults  of  great 
men,  and  the  aberrations  of  the  good. 

"  Tell  me,  Owen,"  he  said,  "  as  you're  a  philosopher 
— tell  me  what  difference  the  faults  of  good  men  make 
in  our  estimate  of  them?" 

"In  our  real  estimate,"  said  Owen,  "I  fancy  we 
often  adopt,  half  unconsciously,  the  maxim,  that  '  the 
king  can  do  no  wrong' — that  the  true  hero  is  all 
heroic." 

"Yes,"  said  Kennedy;  "but  when  some  one  calls 
your  attention  to  the  fact  of  their  failings,  and  makes 
you  look  at  them — what  then?" 

"  Why,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  the  faults  are  grossly 
exaggerated  and  misrepresented,  and  I  should  try  to 
prove  fcnat  such  is  the  fact ;  and  for  the  rest, — why  no 
man  is  perfect." 

"You  shirk  the  question,  though,"  said  Lillyston ; 
"  for  you  have  to  make  very  tremendous  allowaucs 
indeed  for  some  of  the  very  best  of  men.*' 

"As,  for  instance?" 


A    SINFUL    SAINT.  191 

**As  for  instance,  King  David." 

"  Oh  don't  take  Scripture  instances,"  said  Suton,  an 
excellent  fellow  whom  they  all  liked,  though  he  took 
very  different  views  of  things  from  their  own. 

"  Why  not,  in  heaven's  name  ?"  said  Kennedy  ;  "  if 
they  suit,  they  are  good  because  so  thoroughly  familiar." 

"Yes,  but  somehow  one  judges  them  differently." 

"  I  dare  say  you  do, — in  fact,  I  know  you  .do  ;  but 
you've  no  business  to.  I  maintain  that  even  according 
to  Moses,  King  David  deserved  a  felon's  death.  Murder 
and  adultery  were  crimes  every  bit  as  heinous  then  as 
they  are  now.  Yet  David,  this  most  human  of  heroes, 
was  the  man  after  God's  own  heart.  Solve  me  the 
problem." 

"  Practically,"  said  Lillyston  ;  "  I  believe  one  fol- 
lows a  genuine  instinct  in  determinmg  not  to  look  at 
the  spots,  however  wide  or  dark  they  are,  upon  the 
sun." 

"  And  in  accepting  theoretically  old  Strabo's  grand 
dicvam  ouy  oinv  zz  ayaOuv  ys'^iaOat  -tnrjZrjV  iiij  Tzpurefxiv 
yevr^divra  avdpa  dyaOoy.      Eh?" 

"As  Coleridge  was  so  fond  of  doing,"  said  Julian. 

"Ay,  he  needed  the  theory,"  said  Suton. 

"Hush!"  said  Julian,  "I  can't  stand  any  such  Phi- 
ladelphus  hints  about  Coleridge.  By-the-by,  Owen, 
you  might  have  quoted  a  still  more  apt  illustration  from 
Seneca,  who  criticises  Livy  for  saying,  'Vir  ingenii 
magni  magis  quam  boni,'  with  the  remark,  '  Non  potest 
illud  separari;  aut  et  bonum  erit  aut  nee  magnum.'  " 

Mr.  Admer,  who  was  one  of  the  circle,  chuckled  in- 
wardly at  the  discussion.  "  I  was  once,"  he  said,  "at 
a  party,where  a  lady  sang  one  of  Byron's  Hebrew  melo- 


192  "GOD,  NOT    MAN,  IS    THE    JUDGE. 


dies.  At  the  close  of  it,  a  young  clergyman  sighed 
deeply,  and,  with  an  air  of  intense  self-satisfaction,  ob- 
served, '  Ah !  I  was  wondering  where  poor  Byron  is 
now  !'     What  should  you  have  all  said  to  that?" 

"  Detesting  Byron's  personal  character,  I  should 
have  said  that  the  very  wonder  was  a  piece  of  idle  and 
meddling  presumption,"  said  Owen. 

"  And  I  should  have  answered  that  the  Judge  will 
do  right,"  said  Suton,  reverently. 

"  Or,  if  he  wanted  a  text,  '  Who  art  thou  that  judgest 
another?'"  said  Lillyston,  contemptuously. 

"And  I,"  said  Julian,  "should  have  said, — 

" '  Let  feeble  bands  iniquitously  just, 
Rake  up  the  relics  of  the  sinful  dust, 
Let  Ignorance  mock  the  pang  it  cannot  heal, 
And  Malice  brand  what  Mercy  would  conceal ; 
It  matters  not !'  " 

"And  I,"  said  Kennedy,  "should  have  been  vehe- 
mently inclined  to  tweak  the  man's  nose." 

"  But  what  did  you  say,  Mr.  Admer  ?"  asked  Lilly- 
ston. 

"I  answered  a  fool  according  to  his  folly.  I  threw 
up  my  eyes,  and  said,  '  Ah,  Avhere  indeed  !  what  a 
good  thing  it  is  that  you  and  I,  sir,  are  not  as  that  pub- 
lican.' " 

"  I  should  think  that  he  skewered  you  with  a  glance, 
iidn't  he?"  said  Kennedy. 

"  No,  he  was  going  to  hore  me  with  an  argument, 
which  I  declined." 

"  But  you'v^  all  cut  the  question  :  tell  me,  now, 
supposing   you    had    known  King  David,  should  you 


TOUCHED    WITH    INFIKMITY.  1U3 

have  thought  worse  of  him,  should  you  have  been  cool 
to  him — in  a  word,  should  you  have  cut  him  after  hia 
fall  ?" 

"I  think  not — I  mean,  I  shouldn't  have  cut  him," 
Baid  Owen. 

"And  yet  you  would  have  treated  so  any  ordinary 
friend." 

"Not  necessarily.  But  remember,  that  the  two  best 
things  happened  to  David  which  could  possibly  hap- 
pen to  a  man  who  has  committed  a  crime." 

"Namely?" 

"  Speedy  detection,"  said  Lillyston, 

"  And  prompt  punishment,"  added  Julian  ;  "  but 
for  these,  there's  no  knowing  what  would  have  become 
of  him." 

Unsatisfactory  as  the  discussion  had  been,  yet  those 
words  rang  hauntingly  in  Kennedy's  ears ;  he  could 
not  forget  them.  During  all  those  first  days  of  happy 
travel  they  were  with  him  ;  with  him  as  they  strolled 
down  the  gay  and  lighted  Boulevards  of  Paris ;  with 
him  beside  the  quaint  fountains  of  Berne,  and  the 
green  rushing  of  the  Rhine  at  Basle ;  with  him  amid 
the  scent  of  pine-cones,  and  under  the  dark  green 
umbrage  of  forest  boughs ;  with  him  when  he  caught 
his  first  glimpse  of  the  everlasting  mountains,  and 
plunged  into  the  clear  brightness  of  the  sapphire  lake 
— the  thought  of  speedy  detection  and  prompt  punish- 
ment. It  was  no  small  pleasure  to  partake  in  Violet's 
happiness,  and  mark  the  ever  fresh  delight  that  lent 
?uch  a  bright  look  to  Cyril's  face ;  but  before  Ken« 
nedy,  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment,  the  memory  of  a  dia- 

17 


194  "CONSCIENCE    DOTH    MAKE    COWARDS. 

fiouorable  act  started  like  a  specter,  and  threw  a  sud- 
den shadow  on  his  brow.  He  felt  its  presence  when 
he  saw  the  sun  rise  from  Rigi ;  it  stood  by  him  amid 
the  wreathing  mists  of  Pilatus ;  it  even  checked  his 
enthusiasm  as  they  gazed  together  on  the  unequaled 
glories  spread  beneath  the  green  summit  of  Monto- 
rone,  and  as  their  graceful  boat  made  ripples  on  the 
moonlit  waves  of  Orta  and  Lugans.  In  a  word,  the 
conviction  of  weakness  was  the  only  alloying  influence 
to  the  pleasure  of  his  tour,  the  one-absinth  drop  that 
lent  bitterness  to  the  honeyed  wine.  It  was  not  only 
the  consciousness  of  the  wrong  act  and  its  possible  re- 
sults, but  horror  at  the  instability  of  moral  principle 
which  it  showed,  and  a  deep  fear  lest  the  same  weak- 
ness should  prove  a  snare  and  a  ruin  to  him  in  tha 
course  of  future  life.  I 


CHAPTER     XTI. 

A     DAY     OF     WONDER. 

"  Flowers  are  lovely,  Love  is  flower-like, 
Fx'iendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
Oh  the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like 
With  virtue,  truth,  and  liberty. 

When  I  was  young." — Coleridoe. 

"  To-morrow,  then,  we  are  all  to  ascend  the  Schilt- 
horn,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  as  he  bade  good-night  to  the 
merry  party  assembled  in  the  salle  a  manger  of  the 
chalet  inn  at  Mliren. 

"  Or  as  high  as  we  ladies  can  get,"  said  Mrs.  Dud- 
ley. 

"Oh,  we'll  get  you  up,  aunt,"  said  Kennedy;  "if 
Julian  and  my  father  and  I  can't  get  you  and  Miss 
Home  and  Eva  up,  we're  not  worth  much." 

"  To  say  nothing  of  me!''  said  Cyril,  putting  his 
arms  akimbo,  with  a  look  of  immense  importance. 

"Breakfast,  then,  at  five  to-morrow  morning,  young 
people,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  retiring;  and  full  of  happy 
anticipations,  they  went  oif  to  bed. 

Punctually  at  five  they  were  all  seated  round  the 
breakfast  table,  eagerly  discussing  the  prospects  of  the 
day. 

"  I  say,  did  any  of  you  see  the  first  sunbeam  tip  the 
Juncrfrau  this  morning?"  said  Kennedy.  "It  looked 
like — like — what  did  it  look  like.  Miss  Home?" 

(195) 


196  A    TIP    OF    GOLD. 

"Like  the  golden  rim  of  a  crown  of  pearls,"  said 
Violet,  smiling.  "And  did  you  see  the  morning  star, 
shining  above  the  orange-colored  line  of  morning  light, 
over  the  hills  behind  us,  Eva  ?  What  did  that  remind 
you  of?" 

"  Oh,  I  can't  invent  poetic  similes,"  answered  Eva- 
"  I  must  take  refuge  in  Wordsworth's 

" '  Sweet  as  a  star  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Julian  ;   "  or  Browning's 
"  ■  One  star — the  chrysolite !'  " 

"  Hum !"  said  Cyril,  who  had  been  standing  im- 
patiently at  the  door  during  the  colloquy ;  "  when  you 
young  ladies  and  people  have  done  poetizing,  etc.,  the 
guide's  quite  ready." 

"  Come  along,  then ;  we're  soon  equipped,"  said 
Violet,  adjusting  at  the  looking-glass  her  pretty  straw 
hat,  with  its  drooping  feather,  and  the  blue  vail  tied 
round  it. 

"  I  say.  Miss  Kennedy — bother  take  it  though,  I 
can't  always  be  saying  Miss  Kennedy — it's  too  long. 
I  shall  call  you  Eva — may  I?"  said  Cyril. 

"  By  all  means,  if  you  like." 

"Well,  then,  Eva,  the  guide  is  such  a  rum  fellow; 
he  looks  like  a  revived  mummy  out  of — out  of  Palmyra," 
>aid  he,  blundering  a  little  in  his  geography. 

"  Mummy  or  no,"  said  Julian,  "he'll  carryall  our 
provisions  and  plaids  to-day  up  to  the  top,  which  ia 
aiore  than  most  of  your  A.  C.'s  would  do." 


UPHILLWARD.  197 

"A.  C. — what  does  that  mean  ?"  asked  Violet.  "  One 
Bees  it  constantly  in  the  visitors'  books," 

"  Don't  you  know,  Vi.  ?"  said  Cyril.  "  It  stands  for 
'  athletic  climber.'  " 

"Alpine  Club,  you  little  monkey,"  said  Kennedy, 
throwing  a  fir-cone  at  him.  ^^  You'll  be  qualified  for 
the  Alpine  Club,  Miss  Home,  before  the  day's  over, 
I've  no  doubt." 

"No,"  said  Julian,  "  they  want  thirteen  thousand 
feet,  I  believe,  and  the  Schilthorn  is  only  nine  thou- 
Band." 

"  Nearly  three  times  higher  than  Snowden ;  only 
fancy  !"  said  Cyril. 

Meanwhile  the  party  had  started  with  fair  weather, 
and  in  high  spirits.  The  guide,  with  the  gentlemen's 
plaids  strapped  together,  led  the  way  cheerily,  occa- 
sionally talking  his  vile  patois  with  Julian  and  Mr. 
Kennedy,  or  laughing  heartily  at  Cyril's  "bad  lan- 
guage,"— for  Cyril,  not  being  strong  in  German,  ex- 
ercised a  delightful  ingenuity  in  making  a  very  few 
words  go  a  very  long  way.  Kennedy  walked  generally 
with  Eva  and  Violet,  while  Julian  often  joined  them, 
and  Cyril,  always  with  some  new  scheme  in  hand,  or 
some  new  fancy  darting  through  his  brain,  ran  chatter- 
ing, from  one  group  to  another,  plucking  bilberries  and 
wild  strawberries  in  handfuls,  and  trying  the  merits  of 
his  alpenstock  as  a  leaping-pole. 

The  light  of  morning  flowed  down  in  an  ever-broad- 
ening river,  and  peak  after  peak  flashed  first  into  rose, 
then  into  crimson,  and  then  into  golden  light,  as  the 
Bun  fell  on  their  fields  of  snow ;  high  overhead  rose 
Alp  after  Alp  of  snow-white  and  luminous  cloud,  but 

17* 


198  AN    ALPINE    VIE'W. 

the  flowing  curves  of  the  liills  themselves  stood  uu- 
vaiied,  Avith  their  crests  cut  clearly  on  the  pale,  divine, 
lustrous  blue  of  heaven,  and  our  happy  band  of  trav- 
elers gazed  untired  on  that  glorious  panorama  of  glis- 
tering heights  from  the  towering  cones  of  the  Eiger 
and  the  Moench  to  the  crowding  precipices  of  the 
Ebenen-fluen  and  the  Silberhorn.  Deep  below  them, 
in  the  valley,  "like  handfuls  of  pearl  in  a  goblet  of 
emerald,"  the  quiet  chalets  clustered  over  their  pas- 
tures of  vivid  grass,  and  gave  that  touch  of  human 
interest  which  alone  was  wanting  to  complete  the 
loveliness  of  the  scene. 

Every  step  brought  them  some  new  object  to  gaze 
upon  with  loving  admiration  ;  now  the  gaunt  spurs  of 
some  noble  pine  that  had  thrust  his  gnarled  roots  into 
the  crevices  of  rock  to  look  down  in  safety  on  the 
torrent  roaring  far  below  him,  and  now  the  track  of  a 
chamois,  or  the  bright  black  e3'es  of  some  little  marmot 
peering  from  his  burrow  on  the  side  of  a  sunny  bank, 
and  whistling  a  quick  alarm  to  his  comrades  at  their 
play. 

"What  an  extraordinary  howl!"  said  Cyril,  laugh- 
ing, as  the  guide  whooped  back  a  sort  of  jodel  in  answer 
to  a  salute  from  the  other  side  of  the  valley. 

"  It's  very  harmonious — is  it  not  ?"  said  Violet. 

"  Yes,  that's  one  of  the  varieties  of  the  Ranz  deu 
Vaches,"  said  Kennedy. 

"  And  why  do  they  shout  at  each  other  in  that  way?" 

"  Because  the  mountains  are  lonely,  Cyril,  and  the 
BLepherds  don't  see  human  faces  too  often  ;  so  men 
begin  to  feel  like  brothers,  and  are  glad  to  greet  each 
other  in  these  silent  hills." 


"THE    WILD    ECHOES    FLYING."  IW 

"  Diu  you  hear  how  the  mountain  echoed  back  iii.s 
;ryV"  said  Eva;  "it  sounded  like  a  band  of  elvea 
mocking  at  him."' 

"Yes,  you'll  hear  something  finer  directly;  the 
ffuide  told  me  he  was  going  to  borrow  an  alpcn-horn 
at  one  of  these  chalets,  and  then  you'll  discover  for  the 
first  time  what  echo  can  do." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  guide  appeared  with  the  horn, 
and  blew.  Heavens  !  what  a  melody  of  replications  ! 
How  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills  every  hard  tone  died 
away,  and  all  the  softer  notes  flowed  to  and  fro  in 
tenderest  music,  and  fainted  in  distant  reverberations 
more  and  more  exquisite,  more  and  more  exquisitely 
low.  Can  it  be  a  mere  echo  of  those  rude  blasts?  It 
seemed  as  though  some  choir  of  spirits  had  caught  each 
tone  as  it  came  from  the  peasant's  horn,  and  had 
deified  it  there  among  the  clouds,  and  had  repeated  it 
over  and  over  Avith  divinest  variations,  to  show  man 
how  crabbed  were  the  sounds  which  he  produced,  and 
yet  how  ravishing  they  might  one  day  become,  when  to 
the  symphony  of  silver  strings  they  rang  out  amid  the 
jeraph  harps  and  choral  harmonies  of  heaven.  All  the 
party  stood  still  in  rapturous  attention,  and  even  Cyril 
forgot  for  ten  minutes  his  frolicsome  and  noisy  mirth. 

Reader,  have  you  ever  seen  an  Alpine  pasture  io 
warm  July,  at  early  morning?  If  not,  you  can  hardly 
conceive  the  glorious  carpet  over  which  the  feet  of  the 
-wanderer  in  Switzerland  press  during  summer  tours. 
Around  them  as  they  passed  the  soft  mosses  glowed 
with  gold  and  crimson,  and  the  edges  of  the  Lady's- 
mantle  shimmered  with  such  diamonds  and  pearls  aa 
never  adorned  a  lady's  mantle  yet.     Everywhere  the 


200  ALPINE    FLOWERS. 

grass  was  vivid  with  a  many-colored  tissue  of  dew- 
dropped  flowers :  pale  crocuses,  and  the  briglit  crim- 
Bon-lake  carnation,  and  monk's-hood,  and  crane's-bill, 
and  Aster  alpinus,  and  the  lovely  Myosotis,  and  thou- 
sands of  yellow  and  purple  flowers,  nameless  or  lovelier 
than  their  names,  were  the  tapestry  on  which  they 
trod ;  and  it  was  interwoven  through  warp  and  woof 
with  the  blue  gleam  of  a  myriad  harebells.  At  last 
they  came  to  the  cold  region  of  those  delicate  nurslings 
of  the  hills,  the  gentianellas  and  gentians.  Kennedy, 
who  had  been  keenly  on  the  look  out,  was  the  first  of 
the  party  to  find  the  true  Alpine  gentian,  and,  instantly 
recognizing  it,  ran  with  it  to  Violet  and  his  sister. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  the  first  Alpine  gentian  you 
ever  saw.  Did  you  ever  know  real  blue  in  a  flower 
before  ?~  Doesn't  it  actually  seem  to  shed  a  blue  radia- 
tion round  it  ?" 

"How  perfectly  beautiful !"  said  Violet ;  "  see,  Eva, 
how  intense  blue  and  green  seem  to  be  shot  into  each 
other,  or  to  play  together  like  the  waters  of  a  shoaling 
sea. 

"  Shall  I  take  a  root  or  two  ?"  said  Kennedy. 

"Not  the  slightest  use,'  said  Julian;  "they  only 
grow  at  certain  elevations,  and  would  be  dead  before 
you  got  down." 

"  Isn't  it  strange,  Violet,  that  Nature  should  fling 
iurh  a  tender  and  exquisite  gem  so  high  up  among 
these  awful  hills,  where  so  few  eves  see  them  ?" 

"  Just  look,"  said  Julian,  "  how  the  moss  and  the 
grass  seem  to  be  illuminated  with  them,  as  though  the 
heavens  were  golden,  and  stars  in  it  were  of  blue." 

Whih  they  talked,  Cyril  dashed  past  them  with  all 


MORE    MARVELS.  201 

the  ardor  of  a  young  entomologist  in  full  chase  of  a 
little  mountain  ringlet,  which  he  soon  caught  and 
pinned  on  the  top  of  his  straw  hat.  In  a  few  minutes 
more  he  had  added  a  great  fritillery  to  his  collection, 
and  it  gave  him  no  trouble  to  pick  out  the  finest  of  the 
superb  lazj-flying  Apollos,  which  quickly  shared  the 
i5ame  fate, 

"  Here's  another  for  you,  Cyril,"  said  Eva,  pointing 
to  a  gorgeous  peacock-butterfly  which  had  settled  ami- 
cably by  a  bee  on  the  pink  and  downy  coronet  of  a 
great  thistle. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  that ;  one  can  get  it  any  day  in 
England;  here  though,  look  at  this  lovely  burnetmoth," 
he  cried,  as  the  blue  and  red  winged  little  creature 
settled  on  the  same  thistle-head. 

"  What  a  shame  to  disturb  that  beautiful  Psyche," 
said  Julian,  as  Cyril  dashed  his  cap  over  the  prey,  and 
the  peacock  fluttered  off;  "it  was  enjoying  itself  so 
intensely  in  the  sunshine,  opening  and  shutting  its 
wings  in  unmitigated  contentment."  But  Cyril  had 
secured  his  moth  without  heeding  the  remark,  and  was 
now  twenty  yards  ahead. 

A  sudden  roar  of  sound  stopped  him,  and  he  waited 
to  ask  the  rest  "  if  they  had  heard  the  thunder  ?" 

"It  wasn't  thunder,  but  the  rush  of  an  avalanche,'' 
Baid  Kennedy;  "  there,  you  may  see  it  still  on  the  side 
of  the  Jungfrau." 

''  What !  those  little  white  streaks  which  look  like  a 
fountain  torrent?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  can  those  threads  of  snow  make  all  that  row  ?'' 

"  You  must  remember  that  the  threads  of  snow  are 


2U2  THE    CATARACT. 

five  miles  off,  and  are,  perhaps,  thousands  of  tons  in 
weight." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  part  of  the  mount- 
ain where  the  climb  became  really  toilsome,  and  thej 
Bettled  down  into  the  steady  pace  which  the  Swiss 
guides  always  adopt,  because  they  know  that  it  is  the 
quickest  in  the  long  run.  And  at  this  point  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy and  Mrs.  Dudley  left  them,  preferring,  like  sensi- 
ble old  people,  to  stroll  back  in  quiet,  and  avoid  an 
exertion  which  they  found  too  fatiguing.  They  knew 
that  they  could  safely  intrust  the  party  to  the  care  of 
Julian  and  the  guide.  The  ladies  often  needed  help, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  something  very  pleasant  to 
Kennedy  in  the  light  touch  of  Violet's  hand,  for  he  lent 
her  his  arm  or  his  alpenstock  oftener  than  was  abso- 
lutely required.  They  only  stopped  once  more  to  quench 
their  thirst  at  a  streamlet,  which  was  rushing  impetu- 
ously down  the  rocks,  and  a  little  below  them  foamed 
over  the  precipice  into  a  white  and  noisy  cataract. 

"  I  never  noticed  water  before  falling  from  such  a 
height,"  said  Julian;  "  it  looks  exactly  like  a  succes- 
sion of  white  comets  plunging  through  the  sky  in  a 
crowd." 

"  Or  a  throng  of  white-sheeted  ghosts  hurrying  de- 
liriously through  the  one  too-narrow  entrance  of  the 
lower  Avorld,"  said  Kennedy.  "Doesn't  it  remind  ou9 
of  Schiller's  line — 

"  'Und  es  wallet  und  siedet  und  brauset  und  Zischt  ?'  " 

"  I  admire  the  rainbow  most,  which  overarches  the 
fall,  and  plays  into  light,  or  dies  away  as  the  sunbeams 
touch  the  foam,"  said  Violec. 


al-sirat's  arch.  203 

"Doesn't  it  remind  you  of  Al-Sirat's  arch,  Miss 
Home  V  asked  Kennedy, 

"Haven't  the  pleasure  of  that  gentleman's  acquaint- 
ance," observed  Cyril. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Kennedy;  "but  Al-Sirat's  arch  ia 
the  bridge — narroAv  as  the  edge  of  a  razor,  or  tho 
thread  of  an  attenuated  spider — which  is  supposed  to 
span  the  fiery  abyss,  over  which  the  good  skate  into 
Paradise,  while  the  bad  topple  over  it.  Don't  you 
remember  Byron's  lines  about  it  in  the  Giaour? 

"'Yea,  Soul,  and  should  our  prophet  say, 
That  form  was  aught  but  breathing  clay, 
By  Alia  !  I  would  answer  nay  , 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's  arch  I  stood, 
That  topples  o'er  the  fiery  flood. 
With  Paradise  within  ray  view, 
And  all  its  Houris  beckoning  through  !' 

Pretty  nearly  the  only  lines  of  Byron  I  know."  Some- 
how Kennedy  was  looking  at  Violet  while  he  repeated 
the  lines. 

A  few  minutes  more  brought  them  on  to  the  great 
field  of  snow,  through  which  they  toiled  along  labori- 
ously, treading  as  much  as  possible  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  guide. 

"This  isn't  a  glacier,  is  it?"  asked  Cyril. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  If  it  were,  you  wouldn't  find  it  such 
easy  walking,  for  it  would  be  full  of  hidden  crevasses, 
and  we  should  ha\^e  to  march  much  more  carefully,  oc- 
casionally poking  our  feet  through  the  snow  that  lightly 
covers  a  fathomless  depth." 

"  Yes  !   you   must  have  read  in  Murray  that  eerie 


204  THE    TOP    OF    THE    SCHILTH.'UN. 

Btory  of  the  guide  that  actually  tumbled,  though   not 
very  deep,  into  the  center  of  the  glacier,  and  found  his 
way  back  to  light  down  the  bed  of  a  sub-glacial  tor 
rent,  with  no  worse  result  than  a  broken  arm." 

"  There  is  a  still  eerier  story,  though,  of  two  bro- 
thers," said  Kennedy,  "of  whom  one  fell  into  a  cre- 
vasse, and  was  caught  on  a  ledge  some  fifty  feet  down, 
where  he  could  be  actually  seen  and  heard." 

"  Did  he  ever  get  out?"  asked  Violet. 

"  Yes :  the  guide  went  back  four  hours'  walk,  and 
brou^rht  ropes  and  assistance  just  before  dark,  and 
meanwhile  the  other  brother  waited  anxiously  by  the 
side  of  the  crevasse,  talking,  and  letting  down  brandy 
and  other  things  to  keep  the  poor  fellow  alive.  He  did 
escape,  but  not  without  considerable  risk  of  being  fro- 
zen to  death." 

Beguiling  the  way  with  talk,  they  at  last  got  over 
the  tedious  climb,  and  reached  the  summit.  Eva  and 
Violet  were  very  tired,  but  the  difficult  and  eager  air 
of  the  icy  mountain-top  was  exhilarating  as  new  wine, 
and  the  provisions  they  had  brought  with  them  rein- 
vigorated  them  completely.  To  hungry  and  thirsty 
climbers,  black  bread  and  vin  ordinaire  taste  like  nec- 
tar and  ambrosia.  The  day  was  cloudless,  the  view 
unspeakably  magnificent,  and  Cyril's  high  spirits  were 
contagious.  They  lingered  long  before  they  began  the 
descent,  and  laughingly  pooh-poohed  the  guide's  re- 
peated suggestion  that  it  was  getting  late. 

"  I  bet  you  Kennedy  has  been  writing  poetry,"  said 
Cyril ;  "  do  make  him  read  it,  Julian." 

"Hear,  hear!"  said  all  in  chorus;  and  Julian,  with 
playful  force,   possessed  himself  of   the  pocket-book 


NOBODY    IN    PARTICULAR.  205 

while  Kennedy,  only  asseverating  that  the  verses  were 
addressed  to  nobody  in  particular,  fled  from  the  sound 
of  his  own  lyrics,  which  Julian  proceeded  to  read. 

"  Rose-opals  of  the  sunlit  hills 

Are  flashing  round  my  lonely  way, 
And  cataracts  dash  the  rushing  rills 

To  plumes  of  glimmering  spray  ; 
But  mountain  streams  and  sunny  gleams 

Are  not  so  dear  to  me 
As  dawning  of  the  golden  love 

My  spirit  feels  for  thee  ! 

"  Their  diamond  crowns  and  giant  forms 

The  lordly  hills  upraise  ; 
Nor  rushing  winds  nor  shattering  storms 

Can  shake  their  solid  base ; 
Though  Europe  rests  beneath  their  crests, 

And  empires  sleep  secure, 
Less  firm  their  bases  than  my  love, 

Their  snow  less  brightly  pure." 

"  There,  rubbish  enough,"  said  Kennedy,  returning 
and  snatching  away  the  pocket-book  before  Julian  could 
read  another  verse.  "  'Like  coffee  made  without  trou- 
ble, drunk  without  regret,'  as  the  Monday  Oracle,  with 
its  usual  exquisite  urbanity,  observed  of  a  recent  poet." 

"Of  course  addressed  quite  to  an  imaginary  object, 
Eddy,"  said  Eva;  while  Violet  looked  toward  the  hills, 
and  hoped  that  the  glow  which  covered  her  fair  face 
might  be  taken  for  a  reflection  of  the  faint  tinge  that 
already  began  to  fall  over  the  distant  ridges  of  pale 
snow. 

"We  really  must  come  away,"  said  Julian;  "it'll 

18 


•206  LINGERING. 

be  sunset  very  soon,  and  then  we  shall  have  to  creep 
down  nearly  in  the  dark." 

So  they  left  the  ridge,  and  while  Kennedy  and  Cyril, 
amid  shouts  of  laughter,  glissaded  gallantly  over  the 
slopes  of  snow,  Julian  and  the  guide  conducted  the 
girls  by  a  method  less  rapid  but  more  secure.  Arrived 
at  the  rocks,  Cyril  went  forward  with  the  guide,  Julian 
followed  with  Eva,  and  Kennedy  with  Violet  led  up  the 
rear. 

Why  did  they  linger  so  long  ?  Violet  was  tired  no 
doubt,  but  could  she  not  have  walked  as  fast  as  Eva, 
or  was  Kennedy's  arm  less  stout  than  Julian's  ?  She 
lingered,  it  seemed,  with  something  of  a  conscious  plea- 
sure, now  to  pluck  a  flower  or  a  fern,  now  to  look  at 
some  yellow  lichens  on  the  purple  crags ;  and  once, 
when  Julian  looked  back,  the  two  were  some  way  be- 
hind the  rest  of  the  party.  They  were  standing  on 
a  rock  gazing  on  the  fading  splendor  of  the  mountains 
in  front  of  them,  while  the  light  wind  that  had  risen 
during  the  sunset  flung  back  his  hair  from  his  fore- 
head, and  played  with  one  golden  tress  which  had 
strayed  down  Violet's  neck.  He  shouted  to  them  to 
make  haste,  and  they  waved  their  hands  to  him  with  a 
gay  salute.  Thinking  that  they  would  soon  overtake 
him,  he  pressed  forward  with  Eva,  and  did  not  look 
back  again. 

While  Kennedy  walked  on  with  Violet  in  silence 
more  sweet  than  speech,  they  fell  into  a  dreamy  mood, 
and  wandered  on  half  oblivious  of  things  around  them, 
^hile  deeper  and  deeper  the  shades  of  twilight  began 
CO  cast  their  gloom  over  the  hills. 

'*  Look,  Violet,  I  mean  Miss  Home  ;  the  moon  ie  in 


NO    MORE    PATH.  20'^ 


crescent,  and  we  shall  have  a  pleasant  night  to  walk 
m  ;  won't  it  be  delightful!" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured ;  but  neither  of  them  observed 
that  the  clouds  were  gathering  thick  and  fast,  and  ob- 
scured all  except  a  few  struggling  glimpses  of  scattered 
stars. 

They  came  to  a  sort  of  stile  formed  by  two  logs  of 
wood  laid  across  the  gap  in  a  stone  wall,  and  Kennedy 
vaulting  over  it,  gave  her  his  hand. 

"  Surely,"  she  said,  stopping  timidly  for  a  moment, 
"we  did  not  pass  over  this  in  coming,  did  we?" 

Kennedy  looked  back.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
remember  it ;  but  no  doubt  it  has  been  put  up  merely 
for  the  night  to  prevent  the  cattle  from  going  astray." 

They  went  forward,  but  a  deeper  and  deeper  misgiv- 
ing filled  Violet's  mind  that  they  had  chosen  a  wrong 
road. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  with  a  fluttered  voice,  "that  the 
path  looks  much  narrower  than  it  did  this  morning. 
Do  you  see  the  others  ?" 

They  both  strained  their  eyes  through  the  gloom,  nov^ 
rendered  more  thick  than  ever  by  the  dark  driving 
clouds,  but  they  could  see  no  trace  of  their  companions, 
and  though  they  listened  intently,  not  the  faintest  sound 
of  voices  reached  their  eager  ears. 

They  spoke  no  word,  but  a  few  steps  farther  brought 
them  to  a  towering  rock  around  the  base  of  which  the 
path  turned,  and  then  seemed  to  cease  abruptly  in  a 
mass  of  loose  shale.  It  was  too  clear  now.  They  had 
lost  their  road  and  turned,  while  they  were  indulging 
those  golden  fancies,  into  a  mere  cattle-path  worn  by  the 
numerous  herds  of  goats  and  oxen,  the  music  of  whose 


208  DARKNESS. 

jangling  bells  still  came  to  them  now  and  then  in  lo\? 
Bweet  snatches  from  the  pastures  of  the  valley  and  bill. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  They  were  alone  amid  the 
all  but  unbroken  silence,  and  the  eternal  solitudes  of 
the  now  terrible  mountain.  The  darkness  began  to 
brood  heavily  above  them ;  no  one  was  in  sight,  and 
when  Kennedy  shouted  there  was  no  answer,  but  only 
an  idle  echo  of  his  voice.  Sheets  of  mist  were  sweeping 
round  them,  and  at  length  the  gusts  of  wind  drove  into 
their  faces  cold  swirls  of  plashing  rain. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Kennedy,  what  can  we  do  ?  do  shout 
again." 

Once  more  Kennedy  sent  his  voice  ringing  through 
the  mist  and  darkness,  and  once  more  there  was  no 
answer,  except  that  to  their  now  excited  senses  it 
seemed  as  if  a  scream  of  mocking  laughter  was  carried 
back  to  them  upon  the  wind.  And  clinging  tightly  to 
his  arm,  as  he  wrapped  her  in  his  plaid  to  shelter  her 
from  the  wet,  she  again  cried,  "  Oh,  Edward,  what  must 
we  do?" 

Even  in  that  fearful  situation — alone  on  the  mount- 
ain, in  the  storm — he  felt  within  him  a  thrill  of 
strength  and  pleasure  that  she  called  him  Edward, 
and  that  she  clung  so  confidingly  upon  his  arm. 

"Dare  you  stay  here,  Violet,"  he  asked,  '* while  I 
run  forward  and  try  to  catch  some  glimpse  of  a  light?" 

"  Oh  I  dare  not,  I  dare  not,"  she  cried ;  "  you  might 
miss  your  way  in  coming  back  to  me,  and  I  should  be 
alone." 

He  saw  that  she  loved  him;  he  had  read  the  secret 
of  her  heart,  and  he  was  happy.  Passionately  he  drevi 
her  towaid  him,  and  on  her  soft  fragrant  cheek — on 


A   MOUNTAIN    STORM.  209 

which  the  pallor  of  dread  had  not  yet  extinguished  tlio 
glow  which  had  been  kindled  by  the  mountain  wind — 
he  printed  a  lover's  kiss ;  but  in  maidenly  reserve  she 
drew  back,  and  was  afraid  to  have  revealed  her  secret, 
and  once  more  she  said.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Kennedy,  we  shall 
die  if  we  stay  here  unsheltered  in  this  storm." 

As  though  to  conjBrra  her  words,  the  thunder  began 
to  growl,  and  while  the  sounds  of  it  were  beaten  back 
with  long  loud  hollow  buffetings  from  the  rocks  on  every 
side,  the  blue  and  winged  flash  of  lightning  glittered 
before  their  eyes,  cleaving  a  rift  with  dazzling  and  vivid 
intensity  amid  the  purple  gloom. 

"  Stay  here  but  one  instant,  Violet — Miss  Home," 
he  said ;  "  I  will  climb  this  rock  to  see  if  any  light  is 
near,  and  will  be  with  you  again  in  a  moment." 

He  bounded  actively  up  the  rock,  reckless  of  danger, 
and  gazed  from  the  summit  into  the  night.  For  a 
second,  another  flash  of  lightning  half  blinded  him  with 
its  lurid  glare,  but  when  he  was  again  accustomed  to 
the  darkness,  he  saw  a  dull  glimmer  in  the  distance, 
and  supposing  it  to  come  from  the  hotel,  sprang  down 
the  rock  again  to  Violet's  side. 

"  This  way,"  he  said,  "  dear  Violet ;  I  see  a  light, 
and  from  the  direction  of  it,  I  think  it  must  be  from 
our  hotel.  Keep  up  courage,  and  we  shall  soon  reach 
it." 

Dangerous  as  it  was  to  hurry  over  the  wet  and 
slippery  shale  and  down  the  steep  sides  of  the  rugged 
hill,  Kennedy  half  drew,  half  carried  her  along  with 
Bwift  steps  toward  the  place  from  which  the  dim  light 
still  seemed  to  allure  them  by  its  wavering  and  uncertaiQ 
Sicker. 

18* 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A     NIGHT     OF     TERROR. 

'•  For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  Thee, 
Our  God,  our  Father's  God ; 
Thou  hast  made  our  spirits  mighty, 

By  the  touch  of  the  mouutaia  sod  !" — Hem  ins. 

"  Herb  you  are,  then,"  said  the  cheerful  voice  of 
Mr.  Kennedy,  as  Julian,  Eva,  and  Cyril,  followed  by 
the  guide,  entered  the  little  Miirrem  inn. 

"Here  are  three  of  us,"  answered  Julian;  "haven't 
Edward  and  Violet  arrived  ?  Not  having  seen  them 
for  the  last  half  hour,  I  fancied  they  must  have  got 
before  us  by  some  short  cut." 

"No,  they've  not  come  yet.  Fortunately  for  you, 
Eva,  Aunt  Dudley  is  very  tired  and  has  gone  to  bed," 
he  said  laughing,  "  otherwise  you  would  have  got  a 
scolding  for  not  taking  better  care  of  Violet." 

"  Oh,  then,  they  must  be  close  behind  somewhere 
for  certain,"  said  Julian;  "  they  could  not  have  missed 
the  path — it  lay  straight  before  us  the  whole  way." 

"  Well,  I  hope  they'll  be  in  soon,  for  it  begins  to 
look  lowering.  I've  ordered  tea  for  you  ;  make  haste 
and  come  down  to  it.  You're  ready  for  tea,  Cyril,  I 
have  no  doubt." 

^'■Rather!'''  said  Cyril,  reviving;  for  fatigue  had 
made  him  very  quiet  during  the  last  half  hour.  And, 
(210) 


NOT    ARRIVED.  211 

indeed,  the  tempting-looking  display  on  the  table,  the 
bright  teapot,  and  substantial  meal,  and  amber-colored 
honey,  would  have  allured  a  more  fastidious  appetite. 

They  ran  up  stairs  to  make  themselves  comfortable 
before  having  tea  and  retiring  to  bed,  and  on  re-enter- 
ing the  warm  and  glowing  room,  their  first  question 
was,  "Have  they  come?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  anxiously;  and  even  tho 
boy's  face  grew  grave  and  thoughtful,  as  Julian  rose 
from  the  tea-table,  and  said,  "  I  must  go  and  search 
for  them." 

He  seized  his  straw  hat,  put  on  his  boots  again,  and 
ran  out,  calling  on  the  guide  to  accompany  him.  They 
took  out  with  them  a  lighted  torch,  but  it  was  instantly 
extinguished  by  the  streaming  rain.  Julian  and  tho 
guide  shouted  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  but  heard  no 
sound  in  reply ;  and  the  darkness  was  now  so  intense, 
that  it  was  madness  to  proceed  farther  amid  that 
howling  storm. 

They  ran  back  to  the  inn,  where  the  rest  sat  round 
the  table,  pale  and  trembling  with  excessive  fear.  In 
reply  to  their  hasty  questions,  Julian  could  only  shake 
his  head  sorrowfully. 

"  The  guide  says  that  in  all  probability  they  must 
have  been  overtaken  by  the  storm,  and  have  run  to 
some  chdlet  for  refuge.  If  so,  they  will  be  safe  and 
well  treated  till  the  morning." 

"You  children  had  better  go  to  bed,"  said  Mr, 
Xennedy  to  Eva  and  Cyril,  who  reluctantly  obeyed. 
"  You  cannot  be  of  any  help,  and  directly  the  storm 
begins  to  abate,  Julian  and  I  will  go  and  find  the 
ttthers." 


212  IN  god's  hand. 

"Ob,  papa,"  sobbed  Eva;  "poor  Eddy  and  Violet, 
what  will  become  of  tbem  ?  perhaps  they  have  been 
struck  by  the  lightning." 

"  They  are  in  God's  hand,  dearest,"  he  said,  tenderly 
kissing  her  tearful  face,  "as  we  all  are.  In  His  hand 
they  are  as  safe  as  we." 

"  In  God's  hand,  dear  Eva,"  said  Julian,  as  he  bade 
her  good  night.  "  Go  to  sleep,  and  no  doubt  they  will 
be  here  safe  before  you  awake." 

"  I  shall  not  sleep,  Julian,"  she  whispered  ;  "I  shall 
go  and  pray  for  their  safety.  Dear,  dear  Eddy  and 
Violet." 

Cyril  lingered  in  the  room. 

"  Do  let  me  stay  up  with  you,  Julian.  I  couldn't 
sleep — indeed,  I  couldn't ;  and  I  might  be  of  some  use 
when  morning  comes,  and  when  you  go  to  look  for 
them.     Do  let  me  stay,  Julian." 

Julian  could  not  resist  his  brother's  wish,  though 
Mr.  Kennedy  thought  it  best  that  the  boy  should  go  to 
bed.  So  they  compromised  matters'  by  getting  him  to 
lie  down  on  the  sofa,  while  they  sat  up,  and  stared 
out  of  the  windows  silently  into  the  rain.  How  wearily 
the  time  goes  by  when  you  dread  a  danger  which  no 
action  can  avert ! 

Meanwhile  the  objects  of  their  anxiety  had  hurried 
up  to  the  light,  and  found  that  it  came  from  the  ragged 
windows  of  an  old  tumble-down  tenement,  built  of  pine- 
boards  which  the  sun  had  dried  and  charred,  until  they 
looked  black  and  stained  and  forbidding.  Going  up 
the  rotten  wooden  steps  to  the  door,  and  looking 
vhrcugh  the  broken  windows,  Kennedy  saw  two  men 


A    CHALET.  213 

seated,  smoking,  with  a  flaring  tallow  candle  between 
them. 

"Must  we  go  in  there?"  asked  Violet;  and  Ken- 
nedy observed  how  her  arm  and  the  tones  of  her  voice 
were  trembling  with  agitation. 

"Isn't  it  better  than  staying  out  in  this  dreadful 
storm  ?"  said  Kennedy.  "  The  Swiss  are  an  honest 
people,  and  I  dare  say  these  are  herdsmen  who  will 
gladly  give  us  food  and  shelter." 

Their  voices  had  roused  the  inmates  of  the  chalet, 
and  both  the  men  jumped  up  from  their  seats,  while  a 
large  and  fierce  mastiff  also  shook  himself  from  sleep, 
and  gave  a  low  deep  growl. 

Kennedy  knocked  at  the  door.  A  gruff  voice  bade 
him  enter ;  and  as  he  stepped  over  the  threshold,  the  dog 
flew  at  him  with  an  angry  bark.  Violet  uttered  a  cry 
of  fear,  and  Kennedy  struck  the  dog  a  furious  blow 
with  the  nobbed  end  of  his  alpen-stock,  which  for  the 
moment  stunned  the  animal,  while  it  drew  down  on  the 
heads  of  the  tired  and  fainting  travelers  a  volley  of 
brutal  German  oaths. 

"  Can  you  give  us  shelter  ?"  said  Kennedy,  who 
spoke  German  with  tolerable  fluency.  "  We  have  lost 
our  way,  and  cannot  stay  out  in  this  storm." 

The  man  snarled  an  afiirmative,  and  Violet  observed 
with  a  shudder  that  he  was  an  ill-looking,  one-eyed 
fellow,  with  villainy  stam.ped  legibly  on  every  feature. 
The  other  peasant  looked  merely  stolid  and  dirty,  and 
Beemed  to  be  a  little  better  than  a  cretin,  as  he  sat 
heavily  in  his  place  without  offering  to  stir. 

"  Can't  you  give  us  some  food,  or  at  any  rate  some 


214  CYCLOPS. 

milk  ? — wo  have  been  to  the  top  of  the  Schilthorn,  and 
are  very  tired." 

The  man  brought  out  a  huge  coarse  wooden  bowl  of 
goat's  milk  and  some  sour  bread;  and,  feeling  in  real 
need  of  food,  they  tried  to  eat  and  drink.  While  domg 
so,  Kennedy  noticed  that  Violet  gave  a  perceptible 
start;  and,  looking  up,  observed  the  one  eye  of  their 
grim  entertainer  intently  fixed  on  the  gold  watch-chain 
which  hung  over  his  silk  jersey.  He  stared  the  man 
full  in  the  face,  finished  his  meal,  and  then  asked  for  a 
candle  to  show  the  lady  to  her  room. 

"No  light  but  this,"  said  the  Cyclops,  as  Kennedy 
mentally  named  him. 

"  Then  you  must  lend  me  this." 

And  taking  it  without  more  ado,  he  went  first  to  the 
cupboard  from  which  the  milk  had  been  produced, 
where  seeing  another  dip,  he  coolly  took  it,  lighted  it, 
and  pushed  open  the  creaking  door  which  opened  on 
the  close,  damp  closet,  which  the  man  had  indicated  aa 
the  only  place  where  Violet  could  sleep. 

This  room  opened  on  another,  rather  larger  ;  and 
here,  putting  the  candle  on  the  floor,  for  the  room  (if 
room  it  could  be  called)  was  destitute  of  all  furniture, 
he  spread  his  plaid  on  the  ground  over  some  straw,  and 
said, — 

"  Try  to  sleep,  here,  Miss  Home,  till  morning.  1 
will  keep  watch  in  the  outer  room." 

He  shut  the  door,  went  back  to  the  two  men,  looked 
full  at  them  both,  and  leaving  them  their  candle,  re- 
turned to  the  closet,  where,  fastening  the  door  with  his 
Invaluable  alpen-stock,  he  sat  on  the  ground  by  the 
entrance  of  Violet's  room.     He  heard  her  murmuring 


THE    BAD    HANDS.  215 

VTords  of  prayer,  and  knew  well  that  she  could  not 
Bleep  in  such  a  situation ;  but  he  himself  determined 
to  sit  in  perfect  silence,  to  keep  watch,  and  to  com- 
mend himself  and  her,  whom  he  now  knew  that  ho 
loved  more  than  himself,  in  inward  supplication  to  the 
merciful  protection  of  their  God  and  Father. 

He  felt  a  conviction  that  they  had  fallen  into  bad 
hands.  The  man's  anger  had  first  been  stirred  by  the 
severe  wound  which  Kennedy  had,  in  self-defense, 
inflicted  on  the  dog,  and  now  there  was  too  much  rea- 
son to  dread  that  his  cupidity  had  been  excited  by  the 
sight  of  the  gold  chain,  and  by  Violet's  ornaments, 
which  gave  promise  that  he  might  by  this  accident  gain 
a  wealthy  prize. 

After  an  interval  of  silence,  during  which  he  per- 
ceived that  they  listened  at  his  door,  and  were  deceived 
by  his  measured  breathing  into  a  notion  that  he  was 
asleep,  he  noticed  that  they  put  out  the  candle,  and 
continued  to  whisper  in  low  thick  voices.  He  was 
very,  very  weary,  his  head  nodded  many  times,  and 
more  than  once  he  was  afraid  that  sleep  would  over- 
come him,  especially  as  he  dared  not  stir  or  change  his 
position ;  but  the  thought  of  Violet's  danger,  and  the 
blaze  of  the  lightning,  mingled  with  the  yell  of  the 
fyind,  kept  him  watchful,  and  he  spent  the  intermma- 
ble  moments  in  thinking  how  to  act  when  the  attack 
came. 

At  last,  about  an  hour  and  a  half  after  he  had  re- 
tired, he  heard  the  men  stir,  and  with  a  thrill  of  hor- 
ror he  detected  the  sound  of  guns  being  loaded.  Vio- 
let's candle  was  yet  burning,  as  he  perceived  by  tho 
faint  light  under  her  door,  so  he  wrote  on  a  leaf  of  his 


216  A    STRUGGLE. 

pocket  book,  in  the  dark,  "  Don't  be  afraid,  Violet, 
whatever  you  may  hear;  trust  in  God;"  and  neise- 
lessly  pushed  it  under  the  crevice  of  the  door  into  her 
room. 

The  muffled  footsteps  approached,  but  he  never 
varied  the  sound  of  his  regular  breathing.  At  last 
came  a  push  at  the  door,  followed  by  silence,  and  then 
the  whisper,  "he  has  fastened  it."  Still  he  did  not 
stir,  till  he  observed  that  they  were  both  close  against 
the  door,  and  were  preparing  to  force  it  open.  Then, 
guided  by  a  swift  instinctive  resolution,  he  determined 
to  trust  to  the  effects  of  an  unexpected  alarm.  Noise- 
lessly moving  his  alpen-stock,  he  suddenly  and  with 
all  his  force  dashed  the  door  open,  shouted  aloud,  and 
with  his  utmost  violence  swung  round  the  heavy  iron 
spike.  A  flash,  the  report  of  a  gun,  and  a  yell  of  an- 
guish instantly  followed;  and  as  Violet  in  terror  and  ex- 
citement threw  open  her  door,  the  light  which  streamed 
from  it  showed  Kennedy  in  a  moment  that  the  fore- 
most villain,  startled  by  the  sudden  opposition,  had 
fired  off  his  gun,  of  which  the  whole  contents  had 
lodo-ed  themselves  in  the  shoulder  of  his  comrade.  This 
second  man  had  also  armed  himself  with  a  chamois- 
gun,  which  slipped  out  of  his  hands  as  he  fell  wounded 
to  the  ground.  Springing  forward,  Kennedy  wrenched 
it  out  of  his  relaxing  grasp,  and  presented  it  full  at  the 
head  of  the  other,  who,  half-stunned  with  the  blow  he 
had  received  from  the  heavy  iron-shod  point  of  the 
ashen  alpen-stock,  was  crouching  for  concealment  in 
the  corner  of  the  chalet. 

"Violet,"  he  said,  "all  is  now  safe.  These  wretches 
are  disarmed;  if  you  like  to  take  shelter  here  till  the 


SAFE.  217 

morning,  I  can  secure  you  from  any  further  attack. 
If  you  stir  but  an  inch,"  he  continued,  addressing 
the  unwounded  man,  "  I  will  shoot  you  dead.  Lay 
down  your  gun." 

The  man's  one  eye  glared  with  rage  and  hatred,  but 
Kennedy  still  held  the  loaded  gun  at  his  head,  and  he 
was  forced  sullenly  to  obey.  Kennedy  put  his  foot 
upon  the  gun,  and  was  in  perplexity  what  to  do  next, 
fearing  that  the  wounded  murderer,  who  was  moaning 
heavily,  might  nevertheless  spring  at  him  from  behind, 
and  also  momentarily  dreading  an  attack  from  the 
mastiff,  who  kept  up  a  sullen  growl. 

"  Let  us  leave  this  dreadful  place,"  said  Violet,  who, 
pale  but  undaunted  at  the  horrors  of  the  scene,  had 
taken  refuge  by  Kennedy's  side. 

"Dare  you  pick  up  and  carry  the  gun?"  he  asked. 
''It  would  be  dangerous  to  leave  it  in  their  hands." 

Violet  picked  it  up,  where  it  lay  under  his  feet,  and 
then  glided  rapidly  out  of  the  chalet,  while  Kennedy 
slowly  followed,  never  once  taking  his  eye  from  his 
crouching  antagonist.  Before  he  stepped  into  the  open 
air,  he  said  to  the  men,  "  If  I  hear  but  one  footstep  in 
pursuit  of  us,  I  will  shoot  one  of  you  dead." 
•  "Oh  what  a  relief  to  be  on  the  mountain  turf  onco 
more  !"  said  Violet,  in  a  low  and  broken  whisper,  as  sho 
grasped  Kennedy's  arm,  and  he  cautiously  led  her  dowa 
a  rude  path,  which  was  faintly  marked  a  few  hundred 
yards  from  the  lonely  cottage  where  they  had  been. 
"Are  we  safe  now  do  you  think  ?" 

"Yes,  quite  safe,  Violet,  I  trust.  They  will  not 
dare  pursue  me,  now  that  their  guns  are  gone.,  and  I 
have  this  loaded  one  in  my  hand." 

19 


218  TORCHES. 

"  Dear,  brave  Mr.  Kennedy.  How  shall  I  ever  thank 
you  enough  for  having  saved  my  life  so  nobly?  If  you 
had  not  been  so  strong  and  watchful,  we  should  both 
have  now  been  killed." 

"I  would  die  a  thousand  deaths,"  he  whispered, 
"  to  save  you  from  the  least  harm,  Violet.  But  you 
are  tired,  you  must  rest  here  till  the  dawn.  Sit  under 
this  rock,  dearest,  and  cover  yourself  with  my  plaid. 
I  will  keep  watch  still." 

She  sat  down  wearily,  and  her  head  sunk  upon  the 
rock.  The  storm  was  over :  the  thunder  was  still 
muttering  like  a  baffled  enemy  in  the  distance,  but  the 
wind,  after  its  late  fury,  was  sobbing  gently  and  fitfully 
like  a  repentant  child.  The  rock  gave  her  shelter,  and 
after  her  fatigue  and  agitation  she  was  sleeping  peace- 
fully, while  Kennedy  bowed  down  his  head,  and  thanked 
God  for  the  merciful  protection  which  he  had  extended 
to  them. 

He  had  not  been  seated  long  when  his  eye  caught 
the  light  of  torches,  being  waved  at  a  distance  in  the 
direction  of  the  hotel.  In  an  instant,  he  felt  sure  that 
Julian  was  come  out  to  search  for  them,  and  gently 
awakening  Violet,  he  told  her  with  a  thrill  of  joy  that 
help  was  at  hand.  The  torches  drew  nearer  the  place 
where  they  were  seated,  and  he  raised  a  joyous  shout. 
As  yet  they  were  too  far  off  to  hear  him,  but  suddenly 
it  occurred  to  him  to  fire  his  gun.  The  flash  and 
echoing  report  attracted  their  notice  ;  the  torches  grew 
rapidly  nearer ;  he  could  almost  see  the  dark  figures 
of  those  who  carried  them ;  and  now  in  answer  to  his 
second  shout  came  the  hurried  sound  of  familar  voices, 
and  in  five  minutes  more  Julian  and  his  father  had 


REST.  219 

grasped  him  by  the  hands,  and  Cyril  had  flung  his  arma 
round  Violet's  neck. 

And  now  at  last  Kennedy  gave  way  to  his  emotion, 
and  his  highly-wrought  feelings  found  relief  in  a  burst 
of  passionate  tears.  It  was  no  time  for  questionings. 
Julian  passed  his  arm  around  his  sister's  waist,  and, 
aided  by  Mr.  Kennedy,  half  carried  her  to  their  hotel. 
Kennedy  leaned  heavily  on  the  guide's  arm  ;  the  honest 
landlord,  who  accompanied  the  searching  party,  carried 
the  plaid,  the  alpen-stock,  and  one  of  the  guns,  and 
Cyril,  impressed  by  the  strange  scene,  carried  the  other 
gun,  full  of  wondering  conjecture  what  Kennedy  could 
have  been  doing  with  it,  and  from  whence  it  could  have 
come. 

And  when  Violet  reached  Eva's  room,  in  which  she 
slept,  she  could  only  say,  as  they  sat  locked  in  a  long 
embrace, — 

"  Dearest  Eva,  it  is  only  through  Edward  that  my 
life  has  been  saved." 

Eva  had  never  before  heard  Violet  call  her  brother 
by  his  name,  and  she  was  glad  at  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE     A  L  P  E  N-G  L  U  H  E  N. 

"  And,  last  of  all, 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with  tears 
By  Bome  cold  morning  glacier." — The  Princess. 

Violet's  fluttered  nerves  and  wearied  frame  rendered 
it  necessary  for  the  party  of  English  travelers  to  stay 
for  a  few  days  at  MUrrem,  and  afterwards  it  was  de- 
cided that  they  should  all  go  down  to  Grindelwald,  and 
spend  there  the  remainder  of  the  time  which  they  had 
set  apart  for  the  Swiss  tour.  The  landlord  of  the 
■Jungfrau  treated  them  with  the  utmost  consideration, 
and  amused  Kennedy  by  paying  him  as  much  deference 
as  if  he  had  been  Tell  or  Arnold  himself.  Leaving  in 
his  hands  all  endeavors  to  discover  the  two  scoundrels, 
who  had  entirely  decamped,  Kennedy  gave  him  one  of 
the  guns,  while  he  carried  with  him  the  other  to  keep 
as  a  trophy  in  his  rooms  at  Camford. 

There  are  few  sights  more  pleasant  than  that  of  two 
families  bound  together  by  the  ties  of  friendship  and 
aflFection,  and  living  together  as  though  they  were  all 
brothers  and  sisters  of  a  common  home.  For  long 
years  afterwards  the  Homes  and  the  Kennedys  looked 
back  oil  those  days  at  Grindelwald  as  among  the  hap- 
piest of  their  lives,  and,  indeed,  they  glided  by  like  a 
(220) 


WITH    THE    IMMORTAL^".  221 

dreaiQ  of  unbroken  pleasure.  IIow  is  it  that  there  can 
be  such  a  thing  as  ennui,  or  that  people  ever  can  be  at 
a  loss  what  to  do  ?  In  the  morning  they  took  short 
excursions  to  the  glaciers  or  the  roots  of  the  great 
mountains,  and  Cyril  made  adventurous  expeditions 
with  his  fishing-rod  to  the  mountain  streams.  And  at 
evening  they  sat  in  the  long  twilight  in  the  balcony 
of  their  rooms,  while  Eva  and  Violet  sang  them  sweet, 
Bimple  English  songs,  which  rang  so  softly  through  the 
air,  that  the  crowd  of  guides  and  porters  which  always 
hang  about  a  Swiss  hotel  used  to  gather  in  the  streets 
to  listen,  and  the  English  visitors  collected  in  the  garden 
to  catch  the  familiar  tones.  Julian  and  Kennedy  always 
gave  some  hours  every  day  to  their  books,  and  Cyril, 
though  he  could  be  persuaded  to  do  little  else,  spent 
some  of  his  unemployed  time  on  his  much-abused  holiday 
task  for  the  ensuing  quarter  at  Marlby. 

And  when  the  candles  were  lit,  the  girls  would  sketch 
or  work,  and  Julian  or  Kennedy  would  read  or  translate 
to  them  aloud.  Sometimes  they  spent  what  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy used  to  call  "an  evening  with  the  immortals,"  and 
taking  some  volume  of  the  poets,  would  each  choose  a 
favorite  passage  to  read  aloud  in  turn.  This  was  Mr. 
Kennedy's  great  delight,  and  he  got  quite  enthusiastic 
when  the  well-remembered  lines  came  back  to  him  with 
fresh  beauty,  borne  on  the  pleasant  voices  of  Eva, 
Julian,  or  Cyril,  like  an  old  jewel  when  new  facets  are 
cut  on  its  lustrous  surface.  "  Stop  there ;  that's  an 
immortal,  lad — an  immortal,"  he  would  say  to  Cyril, 
when  the  boy  seemed  to  be  passing  over  some  flower  of 
poetic  thought  without  sufficient  admiration  ;  and  then 
he  would  repeat  the  passage  from  memory  with  such 

19* 


222  A   GREEK    NOVEL. 

just  emphasis,  that  on  these  evenings  all  felt  that  they 
were  laying  up  precious  thoughts  for  happy  futuro 
Lours. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Dudley,  and  you  young  ladies,  we'r^ 
going  to  translate  you  part  of  a  Greek  novel  to-night,'' 
gaid  Julian. 

"A  Greek  novel!"  said  Cyril,  with  a  touch  of  in- 
credulous suspicion.  "  Those  old  creatures  didn't  write 
novels,  did  they  ?" 

"Only  the  best  novel  that  ever  was  written,  Cyril." 

"What's  it  called?" 

"The  Odyssey." 

"Oh  what  a  chouse !  you  don't  mean  to  call  that  a 
novel,  do  you  ?" 

"Well,  let  the  ladies  decide." 

So  he  read  to  them  how  Ulysses  returned  in  the 
guise  of  a  beggar,  after  twenty  years  of  war  and  wan- 
dering, to  his  own  palace  door,  and  saw  the  haughty 
suitors  reveling  in  his  halls ;  and  how,  as  he  reached  the 
door,  Argus,  the  hunting-dog,  now  old  and  neglected, 
and  full  of  fleas,  recollected  him,  when  all  had  forgotten 
him,  and  fawned  upon  him,  and  licked  his  hand,  and 
died ;  and  how  the  suitors  insulted  him,  and  one  of 
them  threw  a  footstool  at  him,  which  by  one  quick 
move,  he  avoided,  and  said  nothing,  and  another  flung 
a  shin-bone  at  his  head,  which  he  caught  in  his  hand 
and  said  nothing,  but  only  smiled  grimly  in  his  heart — 
ever  so  little,  a  grim,  sardonic  smile;  and  how  ths  old 
nurse  recognized  him  by  the  scar  of  the  boar's  tusk  on 
bis  leg,  but  he  quickly  repressed  the  exclamation  of 
wonderment  which  sprang  to  her  lips  ;  and  how  he  sat, 
ragged  but  princely,  by  the  fire  in  his  hall,  and  the 


ULYSSES.  22?i 

red  light  flicke.'ed  over  him,  and  he  spake  to  the  suitors 
words  of  solemn  warning ;  and  how,  when  Agelaus 
warned  them,  a  strange  foreboding  seized  their  souls, 
and  they  looked  at  each  other  with  great  eyes,  and 
smiled  with  alien  lips,  and  burst  into  quenchless  laugh- 
ter, though  their  eyes  were  filled  with  tears ;  and  how 
Ulysses  drew  his  own  mighty  bow,  which  not  one  of 
them  could  use,  and  how  he  handled  it,  and  twanged 
the  string  till  it  sang  like  a  swallow  in  his  ear,  and  sent 
the  arrow  flying  Avith  a  whiz  through  the  twelve  iron 
rings  of  the  line  of  axes;  and  then,  lastly,  how,  like  to 
a  god,  he  leapt  on  his  own  threshold  with  a  shout,  and 
gathered  his  rags  about  him,  and,  aided  by  the  young 
Telemachus  and  the  divine  Swineherd,  sent  hurtling 
into  the  band  of  wine-stained  rioters  the  swift  arrows 
of  inevitable  death. 

Pleased  with  the  tale,  which  the  girls  decided,  in 
spite  of  Cyril's  veto,  to  be  a  genuine  novel,  they  asked 
for  a  new  Greek  romance,  and  Julian  read  to  them 
from  Herodotus  about  the  rise  and  fall  of  empires,  and 
"strange  stories  of  the  deaths  of  kings."  One  of  his 
stories  was  the  famous  one  of  Croesus,  and  the  irony  of 
his  fiite,  and  the  warning  words  of  Solon,  all  of  which, 
rendered  into  quaint  rich  English,  struck  Cyril  so 
much  that,  mingling  up  the  tale  Avith  reminiscences 
of  Longfellow's  '"Blind  Bartimeus,"  he  produced  with 
much  modesty  at  the  breakfast  table  next  morning  the 
following  very  creditable  boyish  imitation  : — 

"  Speak  Grecia's  v/isest,  thou,  'tis  said, 
Full  deeply  in  Life's  page  has  read, 
And  many  a  clime  hath  known  my  tread ; 
Tiq  -d'/rojv  6).fl'.u>zaT()!; : 


^4  THE    DEATHS    OF    KINGS. 

"  The  monarch  raised  his  eag<;r  eye, 
Gazed  on  the  sage  exultingly, 
And  slow  came  forth  the  calm  reply 

"  Upon  his  funeral  pyre  ho  lay 
Crownless,  his  scepter  passed  away, 
The  shade  of  Solon  seem  to  say 

"  How  little  thought  that  G  recian  sage 
These  words  should  live  from  aye  to  aye, 
Ttq  Tzd'^Tiov  dXjScutTazoq  ; 
Tmo<;  6  UOr^valoq. 
6o8kiq  rwv  tl,<uvru}v  oX§io<;.^^* 

In  a  manner  such  as  this  the  summer  hours  glided 
happily  awaj.  But  all  things,  happy  or  mournful,  must 
come  to  an  end,  lest  we  should  forget  God  in  our  pros- 
perity, or  curse  him  in  our  despair.  Too  quickly  for 
all  their  wishes  their  last  Sunday  in  Switzerland  had 
come.  Most  of  them  had  spent  the  day  in  thoughtful 
retirement  or  quiet  occupations,  and  hoth  morning  and 
evening  they  assembled  together  in  their  pleasant  sit- 
ting-room for  matins  and  even-song.  Their  thoughts 
were  full  of  the  coming  separation,  and  it  gave  a  deep 
interest  to  these  last  services  ;  for  the  Homes,  unwill- 
ing to  leave  their  mother  and  Frank  so  long  alone  at 
Iklown,  were  to  start  for  England  on  the  following  day, 
and  the  Kennedys  intended  to  visit  Chamouny  for  two 
weeks  more. 

On  the  Sunday  evening  they  strolled  down  to  the 

*  These  verses  were  really  written  by  a  boy  ot  fourteen. 


I 


MORALIZING    ON    GLACIERS.  2*26 

glacier  to  look  once  again,  for  the  last  time,  into  its> 
crevices,  and  wonder  at  its  fairy  caverns,  fringed  ■with 
icicles,  like  rows  of  silver  daggers,  and  ceiled  with 
translucent  sapphire,  beneath  whose  blue  fretwork  the 
stray  sunbeams  lost  their  way  amid  ice-blocks  of  lu- 
minous green,  and  pillars  of  lapis-lazuli  and  crystal. 
They  sat  on  a  huge  boulder  of  granite,  which  some 
avalanche  had  torn  down,  and  tumbled  from  the 
mountain's  side,  and  there  enjoyed  the  icy  wind  which 
tempered  the  warm  evening  air,  as  it  swept  over  the 
leaping  waves  of  the  glacier  stream. 

"  What  a  mixture  of  terror  and  beauty  these  mon- 
strous glaciers  are!"  said  Julian  ;  "crawling  down  the 
valleys,  and  shearing  away  the  solid  rocks  before  them 
like  gigantic  plowshares." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eva.  "  When  you  look  up  at  the  tum- 
bled pinnacles  of  those  seracs,  does  it  not  seem  as  if 
Summer  had  rent  in  anger  with  some  great  ice-axe  the 
huge  enemy  which  she  could  not  quite  destroy?" 

"  And  see,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  "how  Nature  gets 
out  of  these  terrible  heaps  of  shattered  ice  both  use 
and  beauty ;  and  since  she  must  leave  them  at  the  etei- 
nal  fountains  of  her  rivers,  see  how  she  tinges  them 
with  her  loveliest  blue." 

They  talked  on  until  it  was  time  to  return,  but  Vio- 
let and  Kennedy  still  lingered,  sitting  on  the  vast  boul- 
der, under  pretense  of  seeing  the  sunset. 

"  Well,  don't  get  lost  again,  that's  all,"  said  Cyril, 
Bagely. 

"  Oh,  no ;  we  shall  be  back  very  soon,"  answered 
Violet ;  but  she  felt  instinctively  that  the  "  ve'-y  soon" 
in  time  migh*;  measure  an  eternity  of  emotion. 


226  THE  KOUGEATRE. 

Need  we  say  that  Kennedy  and  Violet  had,  since 
that  night  of  wild  adventure,  loved  each  other,  hour  by 
hour,  with  deeper  affection  ?  He  was  young  and  brave, 
and  light-hearted  and  of  a  pleasant  countenance ;  and 
ske  was  a  young,  and  confiding,  and  graceful,  and  lovely 
girl,  and  they  were  drawn  to  one  another  with  a  love 
which  absorbed  all  other  thoughts,  and  overpowered  all 
other  considerations  ;  and  it  was  unspeakable  happiness 
for  each  to  know  how  lovely  were  all  their  acts,  and 
how  dear  were  all  their  words  in  the  other's  eyes.  And 
now  that  the  time  was  come  to  declare  the  love  in 
words,  and  ratify  it  by  a  plighted  trotli,  there  was 
something  in  the  act  so  solemn,  as  almost  to  disturb 
their  dream  of  a  lover's  paradise. 

They  sat  silent  on  the  rock  until  the  sun  had  set 
behind  the  peaks  of  snow,  and  their  eyes  were  filled 
with  idle  yet  delicious  tears.  Ripples  of  luminous  sun- 
shine and  banks  of  primrose-colored  cloud  still  lingered 
on  the  path  which  the  sun  had  traversed,  and,  when 
even  these  began  to  fade,  there  stole  along  the  hill 
crests  above  them  a  film  of  tender  color,  flinging  a  vail 
of  the  softest  carnation  over  their  cold  gray  rocks,  and 
untrodden  fields  of  perpetual  snow. 

"  Look,  Violet,  at  that  rose  color  on  the  hills  ;  does 
it  not  seem,  as  it  rests  on  those  chill  ledges,  as  though 
Nature  had  said  that  her  last  act  to-day  should  be  a 
triumph  of  glory,  and  her  last  thought  a  thought  of 
love?" 

Violet  murmured  an  assent. 

"Oh,  Violet,"  he  continued,  "you  know  that  I  love 
you,  and  I  know  that  you  love  me;  —  h  it  not  so,- 
Violet?" 


SAPPHIRE    AND    KUBY.  227 

He  hardly  heard  the  "yes"  which  caane  half  like  a 
sigh  from  her  lips. 

"Violet,  dear  Violet,  we  part  to-morrow;  let  me 
hear  you  say  'yes'  more  clearly  still." 

"  You  know  I  love  you,  Edward — did  you  not  save 
my  life  ?" 

"I  know  you  love  me,"  he  repeated  slowly,  "but 
Oh,  Violet !  I  am  not  worthy  of  you — I  am  not  all  you 
think  me."  There  passed  over  his  fair  forehead  the 
expression  of  humiliation  and  pain  which  she  had  seen 
there  with  wonder  once  or  twice  before. 

"You  are  good  and  noble,  Edward,"  she  answered; 
"  I  see  you  to  be  good  and  noble,  or  I  could  not  love 
you  as  I  do." 

"No,"  he  said,  "  alas  !  not  good,  not  noble,  Violet — 
in  nowise  worthy  of  one  so  pure,  and  bright,  and 
beautiful  as  you  are."  He  bent  his  face  over  her 
hand,  and  his  warm  tears  fell  fast  upon  it.  "  But,"  he 
continued,  "  I  will  strive  to  be  so  hereafter,  Violet,  for 
your  sweet  sake.  Oh,  can  you  take  me  as  I  am  ?  will 
you  make  me  good  and  noble,  Violet,  as  Julian  is  ?  can 
you  let  the  sunshine  of  your  life  fall  on  the  shadow  of 
mme  : 

She  did  not  understand  his  passion  as  he  raised  to 
her  his  face,  not  bright  and  laughing  as  it  generally 
was,  but  stained  with  the  traces  of  many  tears ;  sha 
only  knew  that  he  had  won  her  whole  heart,  and  for 
one  moment  she  let  her  hand  rest  in  the  curls  of  the 
head  which  he  had  bent  once  more. 

"Oh,  Violet,"  he  said,  looking  up  again,  "I  can  be 
anything  if  you  love  me."  In  an  instant  the  cloud  had 
oassed  away  from  his  face,  and  the  old  sunshine  bright- 


i28  THE    BETROTHED. 

ened  Ins  blue  oyes.  For  one  instant  ueir  tyes  met 
with  that  lustrous  and  dewy  love-gleam  that  only  lovera 
know,  but  during  that  instant  it  seemed  as  if  their 
Bouls  had  flowed  together  into  a  common  fount.  With 
a  happy  look  she  suffered  him  to  take  her  hand,  and 
draw  off  from  her  finger  a  sapphire  ring ;  this  he  put 
on  his  own  finger,  while  on  hers  he  replaced  it  by  the 
gold-set  ruby,  his  mother's  gift,  which  he  usually  wore. 

The  crescent  moon  had  risen  as  they  walked  home, 
and  they  found  the  rest  of  the  party  seated  in  the  hotel 
garden,  under  her  soft  silver  light;  but  nobody  seemed 
to  be  much  in  a  mood  for  talking,  until  that  little  mon- 
key Cyril,  who  observed  everything,  exclaimed, — 

"  Why,  Julian,  do  look  !  Violet  has  got  Kennedy's 
ring  on,  and — well  I  declare  if  he  hasn't  got  hers  !" 

"Let  us  all  come  up  stairs,"  said  Kennedy,  hastily; 
and  then,  before  them  all,  he  drew  Violet  to  his  side, 
and  said, — 

"Julian,  Violet  and  I  are  betrothed  to  each  other." 

"As  I  thought,"  said  Julian,  with  a  smile,  as  a  rush 
tff  sudden  emotion  made  his  eyes  glisten,  and  he  warmly 
grasped  Kennedy's  hand. 

"  And  as  I  hoped,  Julian,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  as 
he  turned  away  to  wipe  his  spectacles,  which  somehow 
had  grown  dim. 

The  moonlight  streamed  over  them  as  the  two  stood 
there  together,  young,  happy,  hopeful,  beautiful;  and 
while  Cyril  held  Kennedy's  hand,  Eva  and  Violet  ex- 
changed a  sister'fi  kiss. 

And  Julian  looked  on  with  a  glow  of  happiness — hap- 
piness that  had  one  drawback  only — a  passing  shado\H 
of  son  ow  for  the  possible  feelings  of  De  Vayne. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

ONLY   A    BLUSH. 
"Erubit!  salva  res  est !" — Plalt. 

Back  from  the  glistening  snow-fields,  where  every 
separate  crystal  flashes  with  a  separate  gleam  of  light 
— ^back  from  the  Alpine  pastures,  embroidered  with 
their  tissue  of  innumerable  flowers,  over  which,  liko 
winged  flowers,  the  butterflies  flutter  continually — back 
from  the  sunlit  silver  mantle  of  the  everlasting  hills, 
and  the  thunder  of  the  avalanche,  and  the  wild  leap 
of  the  hissing  cataract — back  to  the  cold  gray  flats 
and  ancient  towers  of  Camford,  and  the  lazy  windings 
of  the  muddy  Iscam,  and  the  strife  and  struggle  of  a 
university  career. 

Kennedy  arrived  at  Camford  at  mid-day,  and  as 
but  few  men  had  yet  come  up,  he  beguiled  the  time  by 
going  out  to  make  the  usual  formal  call  on  his  tutor. 
As  he  passed  the  door  of  the  room  where  temptation 
had  brought  on  him  so  many  heavy  hours,  he  could 
hardly  repress  an  involuntary  shudder ;  but  on  the 
whole,  he  was  in  high  spirits,  and  Mr.  Grayson  received 
him  with  something  almost  approaching  to  cordiality. 

"  You  did  very  well  in  the  examination,  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy ;  very  well  indeed.  With  diligence  you  might 
have  been  head  of  your  year — as  it  was,  you  were  in 
the  first  ten." 

20  (229) 


230  FIRST    IN    AESCHYLUS. 

"  Was  Owen  head  of  the  year,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  Home  was  head ;  his  brilliant  composition 
and  thorough  knowledge  of  the  books  brought  him  to 
the  top.  Either  he  or  Owen  were  first  in  all  the  papers 
except  one." 

"  Which  was  that,  sir?" 

''  The  ^schylus  paper,  in  which  you  were  first,  Mr. 
Kennedy ;  you  did  it  remarkably  accurately.  If  you 
had  seen  the  paper,  you  could  hardly  have  done  it 
better." 

"Indeed!"  Would  you  give  me  a  library  order, 
sir?"  said  Kennedy,  rising  abruptly,  to  change  the  sub- 
ject. Mr.  Grayson  was  offended  at  this  sudden  change 
of  subject,  and,  silently  writing  the  order,  bade  Ken- 
nedy  a  cold  "good  morning."  All  that  Kennedy 
hoped  Avas  that  he  would  not  tell  others  as  well  as 
himself,  the  odious  fact  of  his  success. 

The  thought  damped  his  spirits,  but  he  shook  it  ofi". 
The  novelty  of  returning  as  a  junior  soph,  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  the  familiar  faces  once  more,  the  conscious- 
ness of  that  bright  change  of  existence,  which,  during 
the  past  vacation,  had  bound  the  golden  thread  of 
Violet's  destiny  with  his,  filled  him  with  inward  exulta- 
tion. And  then  there  was  real  delight  in  the  warmth 
with  which  he  was  greeted  by  all  alike. 

He  found  himself,  very  unexpectedly,  a  hero  in  the 
treneral  estimation.  The  romantic  adventure  on  the 
Schilthorn  had  been  rumored  about  among  the  numerous 
English  visitors  to  the  Valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  until 
it  had  reached  the  editor  of  a  local  paper,  and  so  had 
flowed  through  Gralignani  into  the  general  stream  of 
the  English  journals.     True,  the  names  had  been  sub- 


A  NEWSPAPER  PARAGRAPH.  23i 

pressed,  but  all  the  St.  Werner's  men  knew  who  waa 

intended   by  "  Mr.  K y,"  and   as  he  entered   the 

hall  there  was  a  murmur  of  applause. 

He  was  greeted  on  all  sides  with  eager  questions. 

"I   say,  Mr.  K y,"   said  one,   "did   the   fellow 

whom  you  shot  die  of  his  wound?" 

"It  was  rather  a  chouse  to  shoot  a  cretin,  though," 
said  another,  in  chaff. 

"  I  didn't  shoot  him,"  said  Kennedy. 

"  No,  you  very  leerily  managed  to  make  the  other 
fellow  shoot  him.  Preserve  me  from  my  friends,  must 
have  been  his  secret  reflections." 

"  Have  you  kept  the  guns,  Kennedy  ?  you  must  let 
me  have  a  look  after  hall." 

While  this  kind  of  talk  was  going  on,  Brogten,  who 
was  nearly  opposite  to  Kennedy,  sat  silent,  and  watched 
him.  He  did  not  join  in  the  remarks  about  the  night 
adventure  in  Switzerland,  but  when  there  was  a  sliglit 
pause  in  the  fire  of  questions,  he  turned  the  conversation 
to  the  subject  of  the  May  examination. 

"  Those  are  not  your  only  triumphs,  Kennedy,  it 
appears.  You  seem  to  have  been  doing  uncommonly 
well  in  the  examination,  too." 

"Oh,  ay,  you  were  in  the  first  ten,"  said  Suton ; 
"Mr.  Grayson  told  me  so." 

"  Wh3  was  first?"  asked  Lillyston. 

"Oh,  Home,  of  course;  except  in  one  paper,  and 
Kennedy  was  first  in  that." 

"  I  believe  that  was  the  -^schylus  paper,"  said 
Brogten,  throwing  the  slightest  unusual  emphasis  into 
his  tone;  "you  Avere  first  in  that,  weren't  you,  Keo- 
aedy  T 


£32  A    SLY    AIM. 

The  men  were  surprised  to  hear  Brogten  address 
him  with  such  careless  familiarity,  knowing  the  old 
quarrel  that  existed  between  them ;  and  they  were  still 
more  surprised  to  hear  Brogten  interest  himself  about 
a  topic  usually  so  indifferent  to  him  as  the  result  of  an 
examination.  It  seemed  particularly  strange  that  he 
should  give  himself  any  trouble  to  inquire  about  the 
present  list,  because  he  himself  had  been  posted,  in 
company  with  Hazlet  and  Lord  Fitzurse,  i.e.  their 
names  had  been  written  up  below  the  eighth  class,  as 
"  unworthy  to  he  classed." 

"Was  I?"  said  Kennedy,  in  the  most  careless  tone 
he  could  assume. 

"  Yes — really,  didn't  you  know  it  ?  You  did  it  so 
well  that  Grayson  said,  you  couldn't  have  done  the 
paper  better  if  you  had  seen  it  beforehand.'" 

"I  say,  Kennedy,  you  must  have  come  out  swell, 
then,"  said  D'Acres,  "  for  Grayson  said  just  the  same 
thing  to  me." 

"How  very  odd!"  said  Brogten,  affectedly.  "You 
didnt  see  the  papers  beforehand,  Kennedy — did  you?" 

The  last  few  moments  had  been  torture  to  Kennedy; 
he  had  moved  uneasily ;  the  bright  look  of  gratified 
triumph,  which  the  allusions  to  his  courage  had  called 
forth,  had  gone  out  the  moment  the  examination  was 
mentioned,  and  it  was  only  by  a  painful  and  violent 
exercise  of  the  will  that  he  was  able  to  keep  back  the 
blood  which  had  begun  to  rush  toward  his  cheeks.  In 
the  endeavor  to  check  or  suppress  the  blush,  he  had 
grown,  ashy  pale ;  but  now  that  Brogten's  dark  and 
cruel  eye  was  upon  him  —  now  that  the  protruding 
underlip  curled  with  a  sneer  that  left  no  more  room  to 


A   BLUSH.  233 

doubt  that  lie  was  master  of  Kennedy's  guilty  secret 
— the  effort  was  useless,  and  spite  of  will,  the  burning 
crimson  of  an  uncontrollable  shame  burst  and  flashed 
over  Kennedy's  usually  clear  and  open  face.  It  was 
no  ordinary  blush — no  common  passage  of  color  over  . 
the  cheeks.  Over  face,  and  neck,  and  brow  the  guilty 
blood  seemed  to  be  crowding  tumultuously,  and  when 
it  had  filled  every  vein  and  fiber  till  it  swelled,  then 
the  rich  scarlet  seemed  to  linger  there  as  though  it 
would  never  die  away  again,  and  if  for  an  instant  it 
began  to  fade,  then  the  hidden  thought  sent  new  waves 
of  hot  agony  in  fresh  pulses  to  supply  its  place.  And 
all  the  while  the  conscious  victim  made  matters  worse 
by  his  attempts  to  seem  unconcerned,  until  his  forehead 
was  wet  with  heavy  perspiration.  By  that  time  the 
men  had  turned  to  other  topics,  and  were  talking  about 
Bruce's  laziness,  and  the  utter  manner  in  which  he 
must  have  fallen  off,  for  his  name  to  appear,  as  it  had 
done,  in  the  second  class ;  and,  in  course  of  time, 
Kennedy's  face  was  as  pale  and  cold  as  it  before  had 
burned  and  glowed. 

And  all  this  while,  though  he  would  not  look — 
though  he  looked  at  his  plate,  and  at  the  busts  over 
his  head,  and  the  long  portraits  of  St.  Werner's  worthies 
on  the  walls,  and  on  this  side  and  on  that  —  Kennedy 
knew  full  well  that  Brogten's  eye  had  been  on  him 
from  beginning  to  end,  and  that  Brogten  was  enjoying, 
with  devilish  malignity,  the  sense  of  povv^er  which  he 
had  gained  from  the  knowledge  of  another's  sin.  The 
thought  was  intolerable  to  him,  and,  finishing  his  dinner 
with  hasty  gulps,  he  left  the  hall. 

20* 


234  NOTICED — A    VISITOR. 

"Brogten,  how  rude  you  were  to  Kennedy/'  said 
Lillyston. 

"Was  I?"  said  Brogten,  in  a  tone  of  sarcasm  and 
:3efiance. 

"No  wonder  he  blushed  at  your  coarse  insinuations." 

"  No  wonder,"  said  Brogten,  in  the  same  tone  ;  "  am 
I  the  only  person  who  makes  coarse  insinuations,  as  you 
call  them  ?" 

"  It  is  just  like  you  to  do  so." 

"  Is  it  ?"  Oh  well,  I  shall  have  to  make  some  more, 
perhaps,  before  I  have  done." 

"  Well,  you'd  better  look  out  what  you  say  to  Ken- 
nedy, at  any  rate.     He  is  a  fiery  subject." 

"  Thank  you,  I  will." 

This  wrangling  was  very  unprofitable,  and  Lillyston 
gladly  dropped  it,  not  however  without  feeling  some- 
what puzzled  at  the  air  which  Brogten  assumed. 

That  night  Kennedy  was  sitting  miserably  in  his 
room  alone ;  he  had  refused  all  invitations,  and  had 
asked  nobody  to  take  tea  with  him.  He  was  just 
making  tea  for  himself,  when  Brogten  came  to  see 
him. 

"May  I  stay  to  tea?"  he  asked,  in  mock  humility. 

"If  you  like,"  said  Kennedy. 

He  stayed  to  tea,  and  talked  about  all  kinds  of  sub- 
jects rather  than  the  one  which  was  prominent  in  tho 
thoughts  of  both.  He  told  Kennedy  old  Harton  stories 
and  asked  him  about  Marlby  ;  he  turned  the  subject  t(. 
Home,  and  really  interested  Kennedy  by  telling  him 
what  kind  of  a  boy  Julian  had  been,  and  what  insepar- 
able friends  he  and  Lillyston  had  always  been,  and 
how  admirably  he  had  recited  on  speech  day,  and  how 


"I    SAW    YOD."  23/j 

Btainless  his  whole  life  had  Oeen,  and  how  vice  and 
temptation  seemed  to  skulk  away  at  his  very  look. 

"  You  are  reconciled  to  him,  then  ?"  said  Kennedy  in 
sui  prise. 

"  Oh,  yes.  At  heart,  I  alwaj^s  respected  hira.  He 
wasn't  a  fellow  to  take  the  worst  view  of  one's  char- 
acter  you   know,  or   to  make   nasty  innuendoes " 

He  stooped,  and  eyed  Kennedy  as  a  parrot  eyes  a 
finger  put  into  his  cage,  which  he  could  peck  if  he 
would.  "  He  wasn't,  you  know,  a  kind  of  fellow  who 
would  force  you  to  leave  the  table  by  sneering  at  you 

in  hall "     He  still  continued  to  eye  Kennedy,  but 

in  vain,  for  Kennedy  kept  his  moody  glance  on  the 
table  and  was  silent,  and  would  not  look  at  him  or 
speak  to  him.  Brogten  could  not  help  being  struck 
with  his  appearance  as  he  sat  there  motionless, — the 
noble  and  perfectly  formed  head,  the  well-cut  features, 
the  cheek  a  little  pale  now,  so  boyishly  smooth  and 
round,  the  latent  powers  of  fire  and  sarcasm  and 
strength  in  the  bright  eye  and  beautiful  lip.  It  was  a 
base  source  of  triumph  that  made  Brogten  exult  in  the 
knowledge  that  this  youth  was  in  his  power ;  that  he 
held  for  a  time  at  least  the  strings  of  his  happiness  or 
misery  ;  that  at  any  time  by  a  word  in  any  public  place 
he  could  bring  on  his  fine  features  that  hue  of  shame ; 
that  for  his  own  purposes  he  could  at  any  time  ruin 
his  reputation,  and  put  an  end  to  his  popularity. 

Not  that  he  intended  to  do  so.  He  had  the  power, 
but  unless  provoked,  he  did  not  wish  or  mean  to  use  it. 
It  was  far  more  luxurious  to  keep  it  to  him^self,  and  use 
it  as  occasion  might  serve.  Everybody's  secret  is  no- 
^ody's  seci'et,  and  it  was  enough  for  Brogten  to  enjo^ 


236  brogten's  use 

privately  the  triumph  he  had  longed  for,  and  which 
accident  had  put  into  his  hands. 

''  Come,  come,  Kennedy,"  he  said,  "  this  is  non- 
sense ;  we  understand  each  other.  I  saw  you  coolly 
read  over  the  whole  examination  paper,  you  know, 
which  wasn't  the  most  honorable  thing  in  the  world  to 
do " 

He  paused,  and  half  relented,  as  he  saw  a  solitary 
tear  on  Kennedy's  cheek,  which  was  indignantly 
brushed  away  almost  as  soon  as  it  had  started. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  cheer  up,  man.  I'm  not  going 
to  tell  of  you ;  neither  Grayson  nor  any  of  the  men 
shall  know  it,  and  at  present  not  a  soul  has  a  suspicion 
of  such  a  thing,  except  ourselves.  Come — I've  had 
my  triumph  over  you,  for  your  sharp  words  in  hall  last 
term,  before  all  the  men,  and  that's  all  I  wanted. 
Don't  let's  be  enemies  any  longer.     Good  night." 

But  Kennedy  sat  there  passively,  and  when  Brogten 
had  gone  away,  whistling  "  The  Rat-catcher's  Daugh- 
ter," he  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  his 
thoughts  wandered  away  to  Violet  Home. 

0  holy,  ennobling,  purifying  love !  He  felt  that  if 
he  had  known  Violet  before,  he  should  not  now  have 
been  in  Brogten's  power.  He  fancied  that  the  secret 
had  oozed  out ;  he  fancied  that  men  eyed  him  some- 
times with  strange  glances;  he  pictured  to  himself  the 
degradation  he  should  feel  if  Julian,  or  De  Vayne,  or 
Lillyston  ever  knew  of  what  weakness  he  was  capable. 
This  one  error  rode  like  a  nightmare  on  his  breast. 

But  none  of  his  gloomy  presentiments  on  the  score 
of  detection  were  fulfilled.  Except  to  Bruce,  and  that 
.inder  a  pledge  of   secrecy,  Brogten  never   betrajed 


Of    HIS    INFLUENCE.  237 

what  he  knew,  and  the  only  immediate  way  in  which 
he  exercised  the  influence  which  his  knowledge  gave 
him,  was  by  claiming  with  Kennedy  a  tone  of  famil- 
iarity, and  asking  him  to  card  parties,  suppers,  and 
idle  riots  of  all  kinds,  in  which  Bruce  and  Fitzurse 
A\ere  frequent  visitors. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BkUCE      THE      TEMPT  EK. 
^Oui  anirefois ;  mais  nous  avons  cbang6  tout  cela."—  MofaBRa 

Bruoe  was  disgusted  with  his  second  class  in  the  St. 
Werner's  May  examination.  He  had  quite  flattered 
himself  that  he  could  not  fail  to  be  among  the  some- 
what large  number  who  annually  obtained  the  pleasant 
and  easy  distinction  of  a  first.  He  had  not  been  nearly 
so  idle  as  men  supposed,  although  he  had  managed  to 
waste  a  large  amount  of  time ;  and  if  he  could  have 
foreseen  that  his  name  would  only  appear  in  the  second 
class,  he  would  have  endeavored  to  be  lower  still,  so  as 
to  make  it  appear  that  he  had  not  condescended  to  give 
a  thought  on  the  subject.  As  it  was,  he  hoped  that  if 
he  got  a  first,  men  would  remark,  "  Clever  fellow  that 
Bruce  !  never  opened  a  book,  and  yet  got  a  first  class;" 
whereas  now  he  knew  that  the  general  judgment  would 
be,  "  Bruce  can't  be  half  such  a  swell  as  one  fancied. 
He's  only  taken  a  second." 

His  vanity  was  wounded,  and  he  determined  to  throw 
up  reading  altogether.  "  What  good  would  it  do  him 
to  grind?  His  father  was  rolling  in  money,  and  of 
course  he  should  cut  a  very  fjood  fiu'ure  in  London  when 
he  had  left  Camford,  which  was  a  mere  place  for  cram- 
mers and  crammed,"  etc. 

So  Bruce   became  more  and   more   confirmed  as  a 
irifler  and   idler,  and   he  suffered  that   terrible  enini 
(238) 


IDLERS    TEMPT    THE    DEVIL  23.) 

iv'bich  dogs  the  shadow  of  wasted  time.  Associating, 
habitually,  with  men  who  were  his  inferiors  in  ability, 
and  whose  tastes  were  lower  than  his  own,  the  vacuity  oi 
mind  and  lassitude  of  body  which  at  times  crept  over 
him  were  the  natural  assistants  of  every  temptation  to 
extravagance,  frivolity,  and  sin. 

An  accidental  conversation  gave  a  mischievous  turn 
to  his  idle  propensities.  Coming  into  hall  one  evening, 
he  found  himself  seated  next  to  Suton,  and  observing, 
from  the  goose  on  the  table  and  the  audit  ale  which 
was  circling  in  the  loving  cup,  that  it  was  a  feast,  he 
turned  to  his  neighbor,  and  asked, — 

"  Is  it  a  saint's  day  to-day  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Suton,  "and  the  most  memorable  of 
them  all — All  Saints'  Day." 

"  Oh,  really,"  said  Bruce,  with  an  expression  of  half 
contemptuous  interest,  "  then  I  suppose  chapel's  at  a 
quarter  past  six  and  we  shall  have  one  of  those  long- 
winded  choral  services." 

"Dgn't  you  like  them?" 

"  Like  them  ?  I  should  think  not !  Since  one's 
forced  to  do  a  certain  amount  of  chapels,  the  shorter 
they  are  the  better." 

"Of  course,  if  you  regard  it  in  the  light  of  '  doing' 
so  many  chapels,  you  won't  find  it  pleasant." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  now,"  said  Bruce,  turning 
round  and  looking  full  at  Suton,  "that  you  regard 
chapels  as  anything  but  an  unmitigated  nuisance?" 

"  Most  certainly  I  do  mean  to  tell  you  so,  if  you  ask 

me  : 

"  Ah  !  I  see — a  Sim  !"  said  Bruce,  with  the  slightest 

possible  .shrug  of  the  shoulders. 


240  A    YOUNG    NERO. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  'a  Sim,'  IMr. 
Bruce,"  said  Suton,  slightly  coloring ;  "but  whether 
a  Sim  or  not,  I  at  least  expect  to  be  treated  as  a 
gentleman." 

"Oh,  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Bruce;  "but  I  couldn't 
help  recognizing  the  usual  style  of " 

"  Of  cant,  I  suppose  you  would  say.  Thank  you. 
You  must  find  it  a  cold  faith  to  disbelieve  in  all  sin- 
cerity." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  At  any  rate,  I  don't  believe 
that  all  your  saints  put  together  were  really  a  bit  bet- 
ter than  their  neighbors ;  so  I  can't  get  up  an  annual 
enthusiasm  in  their  honor.  All  men  are  really  alike 
at  the  bottom," 

"Nero's  belief,"  said  Owen,  who  had  overheard  the 
conversation. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  whether  it  was  Nero's,  or  Neri's, 
or  Neander's,"  answered  Bruce;  "experience  proves  it 
to  be  true." 

Suton  had  finished  dinner,  and  as  he  did  net  relish 
Bruce's  ofiF-hand  and  patronizing  manner,  he  left  the 
discussion  in  Owen's  hand.  But  between  Owen  and 
Bruce  there  was  an  implacable  dissimilarity,  and  neither 
of  them  cared  to  pursue  the  subject. 

Bruce,  who  went  to  wine  with  D'Acres,  repeated 
there  the  subject  of  the  conversation,  and  found  that 
most  of  his  audience  affected  to  agree  with  him.  In 
fact,  he  had  himself  set  the  fashion  of  a  semi-professed 
infidelity ;  and,  amid  his  most  intimate  associates,  there 
were  many  to  adopt  with  readiness  a  theory  which 
saved  them  from  the  trouble  and  expense  of  a  scrupu- 
lous conscience.    With  Bruce,  this  infidelity  was  rather 


DECAY    OF    FAITH.  241 

the  decay  of  faith  than  the  growth  of  po.siti\e  disbe- 
lief. He  had  dipped  with  a  kind  of  willful  curiosity 
into  Strauss's  Life  of  Jesus,  and  other  books  of  a  simi- 
lar description,  together  with  such  portions  of  current 
literature  as  were  most  clever  in  sneering  at  Ohris- 
tianity,  or  most  undisguised  in  rejecting  it. 

Such  reading — harmless,  or  even  desirable,  as  it 
micfht  have  been  to  a  strong  mind  sincere  in  its  search 
for  truth,  and  furnished  with  that  calm  capacity  for 
impartial  thought  which  is  the  best  antidote  against 
error — Avas  fatal  to  one  whose  superficial  knowledge 
and  irregular  life  gave  him  already  a  powerful  bias 
toward  getting  rid  of  everything  which  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  tendencies  and  pursuits.  Bruce  was  not  in 
earnest  in  the  desire  for  knowledge  and  wisdom  :  he 
grasped  with  avidity  at  a  popular  objection  or  a  skep- 
tical argument,  without  desiring  to  understand  or  mas- 
ter the  principles  which  rendered  them  nugatory ;  and 
he  was  ignorant  and  untaught  enough  to  fancy  Inat 
the  very  foundations  of  religion  were  shaken,  if  he 
could  attack  the  authenticity  of  some  Jewish  miracle, 
or  impugn  the  genuineness  of  some  Old  Testament 
book. 

When  all  belief  was  shaken  down  in  his  shallow  and 
somewhat  feeble  understanding,  the  structure  of  his 
moral  convictions  was  but  a  baseless  fabric.  Error  in 
itself  is  not  fatal  to  the  inner  sense  of  right ;  but  Bruce's 
error  was  not  honest  doubt,  it  was  willful  self-decep- 
tion, blindness  of  heart,  first  deliberately  induced,  then 
penally  permitted. 

In  Bruce's  character  there  was  not  only  the  error  in 
intellectu,  but  also  the  pertinacia  in  voluntate.      AD 

21 


242  STRUTTING    TO    CONFUSION. 

sense  of  honor,  all  delicacy  of  principle,  all  perception 
of  sin  and  righteousness,  all  the  landmarks  of  right 
and  wrong  were  obliterated  in  the  muddy  inundation 
of  flippant  h-reverence  and  ignorant  disbelief. 

"For  when  we  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard, 
0,  misery  on't !  the  "isc  gods  seal  our  eyes  : 
In  our  own  filth  drop  our  clear  judgments,  make  as 
Adore  our  errors,  laugh  at  us  while  we  strut 
To  our  confusion." 

"  I'm  sometimes  half  inclined  to  agree  with  what 
you  were  saying  about  would-be  saints,"  said  Brogten, 
as  they  left  D' Acres'  wine  party. 

"  What  fun  it  would  be  to  try  the  experiment  of  a 
saint's  peccability  on  some  living  subject,"  said  Bruce. 

"  Bather  !    Suppose  you  try  on  that  fellow  Hazlet  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  mean  the  lank  party  who  snuffles  the  re- 
sponses with  such  oleaginous  sanctimony.  Well,  I  bet 
you  two  to  one  in  ponies  that  I  have  him  roaring  drunk 
before  a  month's  over." 

"I  won't  take  the  bet,"  said  Brogten,  "because  I 
believe  you'll  succeed." 

"I'll  t-t-take  it  for  the  fun,"  said  Fitzurse. 

"  Done,  then  !"  said  Bruce. 

So  Bruce,  pour  passer  le  temps,  deliberately  under- 
took the  corruption  of  a  human  soul.  That  soul  might 
have  been  low  enough  already ;  for  Hazlet  was,  as  we 
have  seen,  mean-hearted  and  malicious,  and  in  him, 
although  unknown  to  himself,  the  garb  of  the  Pharisee 
but  concealed  the  breast  of  the  hypocrite.  But  yet 
Hazlet  was  free,  and  if  Bruce  had  not  undertaken  the 
devil's  work,  might  have  been  free  to  his  life's  end. 


THE    devil's    work — "  FAST"    OR    "SLOW."      243 

from  all  gross  forms  of  transgression — from  all  the 
more  flagrant  and  open  delinquencies  that  lay  waste 
the  inner  sanctities  of  a  fallen  human  soul. 

He  was  an  easy  subject  for  Bruce's  machinations, 
and  those  machinations  were  conceived  and  carried  on 
with  consummate  and  characteristic  cleverness.  Bruce 
did  not  spread  his  net  in  the  sight  of  the  bird,  but  set 
to  work  with  wariness  and  caution.  He  determined  to 
try  the  arts  of  fascination,  not  of  force.  The  thought 
of  the  desperate  wickedness  involved  in  his  attempt 
either  never  crossed  his  mind,  or,  if  it  did,  was  rejected 
as  the  feeble  suggestion  of  an  over-scrupulous  conscience. 
Bruce  pretended  at  least  to  fancy  that  the  basis  of  all 
men's  characters  was  identical,  and  that,  as  they  only 
differed  in  external  manifestations,  it  made  very  little 
difference  whether  Hazlet  became  "fast"  or  continued 
"  slow."  "  Fast"  and  "  slow"  were  the  mild  euphemisms 
with  which  Bruce  expressed  the  slight  distinction  between 
a  vicious  and  a  virtuous  life. 

At  hall — the  grand  place  for  rencounters — he  managed 
to  get  a  seat  next  to  his  victim,  and  began  at  once  to 
treat  him  with  that  appearance  of  easy  and  well-breJ 
familiarity  which  he  had  learnt  in  London  circles.  He 
threw  a  gentle  expression  of  interest  into  his  face  and 
voice,  he  listened  with  deference  to  Hazlet's  remarks, 
he  addressed  several  questions  to  him,  thanked  him 
politely  for  all  his  information,  and  then  adroitly  in- 
troduced some  delicate  compliments  on  the  agreeable- 
ness  of  Hazlet's  society.  His  bait  took  completely ; 
Hazlet,  whom  most  men  snubbed,  was  quite  flustered 
with  gratified  vanity  at  the  condescending  notice  of  so 
unexceptionable  a  man  of  fashion  as  the  handsome  and 


244  SAVOIR  VIVRE. 

noted  Vyvyan  Bruce.    "At  last,"  thought  Hazlet,  -  men 
are  beginning  to  appreciate  my  intellectual  powers." 

After  continuing  this  process  for  some  days,  until 
Hazlet  was  unalterably  convinced  that  he  must  be  a 
vastly  agreeable  and  attractive  person,  Bruce  asked  him 
to  come  to  breakfast,  and  invited  Brogten  and  Fitzurse 
to  meet  him.  He  calculated  justly  that  Hazlet,  ac- 
customed only  to  the  very  quiet  neighborhood  of  a 
country  village,  would  be  duly  impressed  with  the  pres- 
ence and  acquaintance  of  a  live  lord;  and  he  instructed 
both  his  guests  in  the  manner  in  which  they  should  treat 
the  subject  of  their  experiment.  Hazlet  thought  he 
had  never  enjoyed  a  breakfast  party  so  much.  There 
was  a  delicious  spice  of  worldliness  in  the  topics  of  con- 
versation which  was  quite  refreshing  to  him,  accustomed 
as  he  was  to  the  somewhat  droning  moralisms  of  his 
"  cono-enial  friends."  Nothing  which  could  deeply  shock 
his  prejudices  was  ever  alluded  to,  but  the  discussions 
which  were  introduced  came  to  him  with  all  the  charm 
of  novelty  and  awakened  curiosity. 

Hazlet  never  could  endure  being  a  silent  or  inactive 
listener  while  a  conversation  was  going  forward.  No 
matter  how  complete  his  ignorance  of  the  subject,  he 
generally  managed  to  hazard  some  remarks.  Bruce 
talked  a  good  deal  about  actors  and  theaters,  and 
Hazlet  had  never  seen  a  theater  in  his  life.  He  did 
not  like,  however,  to  confess  this  fact,  and,  after  a  little 
hesitation,  began  to  talk  as  if  he  were  an  habitud. 
The  dramatic  criticisms,  which  he  occasionally  saw  in 
the  papers,  furnished  him  with  just  materials  enough 
to  amuse  Bruce  and  the  others  at  his  assumption  of 
''savoir  vivre,"  and  to  farnish  a  laugh  at  his  expense 


HAZLET.  245 

Ihe  moment  he  was  gone ;  but  of  this  he  was  blissfully 
unconscious,  and  he  rather  plumed  himself  on  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  world.  He  had  yet  to  learn  the  lesson 
that  consistency  alone  can  secure  respect.  He  had 
indeed  ventured  at  first  to  remark,  "  Don't  you  think 
the  stage  a  little — just  a  little — objectionable  ?" 

"Objectionable!"  said  Bruce,  with  a  bland  smile; 
"  oh,  my  dear  fellow,  what  can  you  mean  ?  Why,  the 
stage  is  a  mirror  of  the  world,  and  to  show  virtue  her 
own  image  is  one  of  its  main  objects." 

"Yes,"  said  Hazlet,  "I  am  inclined  to  think  so.  I 
should  like  to  see  a  theater,  I  confess." 

lie  had  let  slip  unintentionally  the  implied  admission 
that  he  had  never  been  to  a  theater  ;  but  when  Fitzurse 
asked  in  astonishment,  "  What,  have  you  never  been  to 
a  theater?"  he  merely  replied,  "Well,  I  can  hardly 
say  I  have;  at  least  not  for  a  long  time." 

"  Oh  then  we  must  all  run  down  to  London  some 
night  very  soon,"  said  Bruce,  "  and  we'll  go  together 
to  the  Regent." 

"But  I've  no  friend  in  London,  except  —  except 
a  clergyman  or  two,  who  perhaps  might  object,  you 
know." 

"  Oh  never  mind  the  clergymen,"  said  Bruce  ;  "  you 
shall  all  come  and  stay  with  me  at  Vyvyan  House." 

Here  was  a  triumph  !  to  go  to  the  celebrated  Vyvyan 
House,  and  that  in  company  with  a  lord,  and  to  be  a 
partaker  of  Bruce's  hospitality  !  Of  course  it  would 
be  very  rude  and  wrong  to  refuse  so  eligible  an  in- 
vitation. How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  remark  casually, 
At  hall  time,  "I'm  just  going  to  run  down  for  the  Sunday 
to  Vyvyan  House  with  Bruce  and  Lord  Fitzurse  !'* 

21* 


246  GETS    HIS    EXEAT. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Bruce,  "  to-day's  Monday  ;  sup- 
posing you  come  to  wine  Avith  me  on  Thursday,  and 
then  we'll  see  if  we  can't  manage  to  get  to  London  from 
Saturday  to  Monday." 

"Thursday — I'm  afraid  I've  an  engagement  on 
Thursday  to " 

"To  what?"  said  Bruce. 

The  more  Ilazlet  colored  and  hung  back,  the  more 
Bruce,  in  his  agreeable  way,  pressed  to  know,  till  at 
last  Ilazlet,  unable  to  escape  such  genial  importunity, 
reluctantly  confessed  that  it  was  to  a  prayer-meeting  in 
a  friend's  rooms. 

"Oh,"  s;iid  Bruce,  with  the  least  little  laugh,  "tea 
and  hassocks,  eh?"  He  said  no  more,  but  the  little, 
scornful  laugh,  and  the  few  scornful  words  had  done 
their  work  more  effectually  than  a  volume  of  ridicule. 
It  need  not  be  added  that  Ilazlet  came,  not  to  the  prayer- 
meeting,  but  to  the  wine  party.  Cards  were  introduced 
in  the  evening,  and  one  of  the  players  was  Kennedy. 
Kennedy  played  often  now,  but  he  certainly  did  feel  a 
qualm  of  intense  and  irrepressible  disgust  as,  with  great 
■surprise,  he  found  himself  v/.s  a  vis  with  the  spectacled 
visage  of  Jedediah  Ilazlet. 

"  But  how  shall  I  get  my  exeat  to  go  to  London  ?" 
said  Ilazlet. 

"  Oh,  say  a  particular  friend  has  invited  you  to  spend 
the  Sunday  with  him.  Say  you  want  to  hear  Starfish 
preach.'' 

Mr,  Norton,  Hazlet's  tutor,  who  did  not  expect  him 
to  fall  into  mischief,  and  thought  that  very  likely  Mr. 
Starfish's  eloquence  might  be  the  operating  attraction, 
granted  him  the  exeat  without  any  difficulty,  and   on 


"•  MAUVE-COLORED    PEG-TOPS.  247 

Saturday  Ilazlet  was  reclining  in  a  first-class  enr- 
nage,  •;vith  Bruce,  Brogten,  and  Fitzurse,  on  his  way  to 
Vyvyan  House.  A  change  was  observable  in  his  dress. 
Bruce  had  hinted  to  him  that  his  usual  garb  might  look 
a  little  formal  and  odd  at  a  theater,  and  had  persuaded 
hin\  to  come  to  his  own  egregious  Camford  tailor,  Mr. 
Fitfop,  who,  as  a  particular  favor  to  his  customer 
Bruce,  produced  with  suspicious  celerity  the  cut-away 
coat  and  mauve- colored  pegtops,  in  which  unwonted 
splendor  Hazlet  was  now  arrayed.  It  was  a  pity  that 
his  ears  were  so  obturated  with  vanity  as  not  to  have 
heard  the  shrieks  of  half-stifled  laughter  created  by  his 
first  public  appearance  in  this  fashionable  guise,  which 
only  required  to  be  completed  by  the  death's-head  pin 
with  which  Bruce  presented  him,  and  which  therefore 
he  was  obliged  to  wear,  to  make  it  perfect. 

The  sumptuous  and  voluptuous  richness  of  all  the 
appointments  in  Vyvyan  House  introduced  Hazlet  to 
a  new  world.  Sir  Rollo  and  Lady  Bruce  were  not 
in  town,  so  that  the  four  young  men  had  the  house 
entirely  to  themselves,  and  Bruce  ordered  about  the 
servants  with  royal  energy.  Soon  after  their  arrival 
they  sat  down  to  a  choice  dinner,  and  Bruce  took  care, 
although  the  champagne  had  been  abundant  at  dinner, 
to  pass  pretty  freely,  at  dessert,  the  best  claret  and 
amontillado  of  his  father's  cellars.  Hazlet  was  not 
slow  to  follow  the  example  which  the  others  set  him  ; 
he  helped  himself  plentifully  to  everything,  and  after 
dinner,  lolling  in  an  easy  attitude,  copied  from  Fitzurse, 
he  even  ventured  to  exhibit  his  very  recently  acquired 
accomplishment   of  smoking   a  weed.     Very  soon   he 


248  AT    THE    REGENT. 

imagined  that  he  had  quite  made  an  impression  on  the 
most  fashionable  members  of  the  St.  Werner's  world. 

They  went  to  the  Regent,  and,  between  the  acts, 
Bruce,  wlio  knew  everything,  introduced  them  behind 
the  scenes.  Ilazlet,  rather  amazed  at  his  own  bold- 
ness, but  in  reality  entirely  ignorant  which  way  to  turn, 
necessarily  followed  his  guides,  and,  exultant  with  the 
influence  of  mellow  wine,  imitated  the  others,  and  tried 
to  look  and  feel  at  home.  Within  a  month  of  Bruce's 
manipulation,  this  excellent  and  gifted  young  man,  this 
truly  gracious  light  in  the  youthful  band  of  confessors, 
was  seated,  talking  to  a  fascinating  young  danseuse 
who  wore  a  gossamer  dress,  behind  the  scenes  of  a  petty 
London  theater.  Bruce  looked  on  with  a  smile,  and 
hummed  to  himself — 

"  Jene  Tanzerinn 
Fleigt,  mit  leichtem  Sinn 
Und  noch  leichtern  Kleide 
Durch  den  Saal  der  Freude 
Wie  ein  Zephyr  bin,"  etc. 

The  head  of  Jedediah  Hazlet  was  somewhat  con- 
fused when,  after  the  play  and  an  oyster  supper  in  the 
cider  cellars,  it  sank  deep  into  the  reposeful  down  of  a 
spare  chamber  in  the  gay  Sir  Rollo  Bruce's  London 
House. 

The  next  morning  was  Sunday.  They  none  ot 
fhem  got  up  till  twelve,  to  a  languid  breakfast,  and 
then  read  novels.  Hazlet,  who  was  rather  shocked  at 
this,  did  indeed  faintly  suggest  going  to  church.  "  Oh 
yes,"  said  Bruce,  locking    up  with  a  smile  from  hia 


THE  lord's  day.  24S 

Balzac,  "  we'll  do  that,  or  some  other  equally  harmless 
amusement."  The  dinner  hour,  however,  coincided 
with  the  time  of  evening  service,  so  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  go  then ;  and  finally  they  spent  the  evening  in 
■what  they  all  agreed  to  call  "  a  perfectly  quiet  game 
at  caras." 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

ONE     OF     THE     SIMPLE     ONES. 

GitToi  xuv  £1!;  fj.a^aipa<;  xuiScazyjcrece  xwv  eie;  r.ufj  aXkoito. 

Xen.  i/?w.  I.  '6. 

"  I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh, 
Hid  in  roses  my  mesh, 
Choicest  cates,  and  the  flagon's  best  spilth." 

Robert  Browning. 

*' Faugh!"  said  Bruce,  on  his  return  to  Camford; 
"  that  fellow  Hazlet  isn't  worth  making  an  experiment 
Qpon — in  corpore  vili,  truly ;  but  the  creature  is  so 
wicked  at  heart,  that  even  his  cherished  traditions 
crumble  at  a  touch.  He's  no  game ;  he  doesn't  even 
run  cunning." 

"Tben  I  hope  you'll  p-p-pay  me  my  p-p-p-ponies," 

said  Fitfeurse. 

"By  no  means;  only  I  shall  cut  things  short;  he 
Isn't  worth  playing;  I  shall  haul  him  in  at  once." 

Accordino-ly  Hazlet  was  invited  once  more  to  one 
of  Bruce's  parties — this  time  to  a  supper.  It  was  one 
of  the  regular,  reckless,  uproarious  affairs, —  D' Acres, 
Boodle,  Tulk,  Brogten,  Fitzurse,  were  all  there,  and  the 
dlite  of  the  fast  fellow-commoners  and  sporting-men  be- 
sides. Bruce  had  privately  entreated  them  all  not  to  snub 
Hazlet,  as  he  wanted  to  have  some  fun.  The  supper 
was  soon  dispatched,  and  the  wine  circled  plentifully. 
It  was  followed  by  a  game  of  cards,  during  which  the 
punch-bowl  stood  in  the  center  of  the  table,  rich, 
(250) 


A    SUPPER    PARTY.  25] 

smoking,  and  crowned  with  a  concoction  oi"  unprece- 
dented strength.  Hazlet  was  quite  in  his  glory.  When 
they  liad  plied  him  sufficiently — which  Bruce  took  care 
to  do  by  repeatedly  replenishing  his  cup  on  the  sly,  so 
that  he  might  fancy  himself  to  have  taken  much  less 
than  was  really  the  case — they  all  drank  his  health 
with  the  usual  honors  : — 

"  For  he's  a  jolly  good  fe-el-low, 
For  he's  a  jolly  good  fe-el-low, 
For  he's  a  jolly  good  fe-el-low — 

Which  nobody  can  deny, 

Which  n  jbody  can  deny  ; 
For  he's  a  jolly  good  fe-el-low,"  etc. 

And  so  on,  ad  infinitum,  followed  by  "Hip!  hip! 
hip  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  !  !  hurrah  !  ! !  and  then  the  gen- 
eral rattling  of  plates  on  the  table,  and  breaking  of 
wineglass  stems  with  knives  of  "  boys  who  crashed  the 
glass  and  beat  the  floor." 

Hazlet  was  quite  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  exalta- 
tion, and  made  a  feeble  attempt  at  replying  to  the 
honor,  in  a  speech ;  but  he  was  in  so  very  oblivious  and 
generally  foolish  a  condition,  that,  being  chiefly  accus- 
tomed to  Philadelphus  oratory,  he  began  to  address 
them  as  "  My  Christian  Friends ;"  and  this  produced 
such  shouts  of  boisterous  laughter,  that  he  sat  down 
with  his  purpose  unaccomplished. 

Before  the  evening  was  over,  Bruce,  in  the  opinion 
of  all  present,  including  Fitzurse  himself,  had  fairly 
won  his  bet. 

"I  shan't  mind  p-p-paying  a  bit,"  said  the  excellent 
young  nobleman  ;   "  it's  been  such  r-r-rare  f-f-fun." 


252  "  RARE   FDN." 

Rare  fun  indeed !  The  miserable  Hazlct,  swilled 
with  unwonted  draughts,  lay  brutally  comatose  in  a 
chair.  His  head  rolled  from  side  to  side,  his  body  and 
arms  hung  helpless  and  disjointed,  his  eyelids  dropped 
— he  was  completely  unconscious,  and  more  than  fulfilled 
the  conditions  of  being  "  roaring  drunk  !'' 

Now  for  some  jolly  amusement — the  opportunity's 
too  good  to  be  lost!  What  exhilaration  there  is  on 
seeing  a  human  soul  imbi'uted  and  groveling  hopelessly 
in  the  dirt !  or  rather  to  have  a  body  before  you,  without 
a  soul  for  the  time  being — a  coarse  animal  mass,  swinish 
as  those  whom  the  wand  of  Circe  smote,  but  with  the 
human  intelligence  quenched  besides,  and  the  charactery 
of  reason  wiped  away.  Here,  some  ochre  and  lamp- 
black, quick  !  There — plaster  it  well  about  the  whiskers 
and  eyelids,  and  put  a  few  patches  on  the  hair !  Mag- 
nificent ! — he  looks  like  a  Choctaw  in  his  war-paint, 
after  drinking  fire-water. 

Screams  of  irrepressible  laughter — almost  as  ghastly, 
if  the  cause  of  them  be  considered,  as  those  that  might 
have  sounded  round  a  witch's  caldron  over  diabolical 
orgies — accompanied  the  whole  proceeding.  So  loud 
were  they  that  all  the  men  on  the  staircase  heard  them, 
and  fully  expected  the  immediate  apparition  of  some 
bulldog,  dean,  or  proctor.  It  was  nobody's  affair,  how- 
ever, but  Bruce's,  and  he  must  do  as  he  liked.  Suton, 
who  "kept"  near  Bruce,  was  one  of  those  whom  the 
uproar  puzzled  and  disturbed,  as  he  sat  down  with 
iober  pleasure  to  his  evening's  woi'k.  His  window 
was  opposite  Bruce's,  and  across  the  narrow  road  he 
heard  distinctly  most  of  what  was  said.  The  perpetual 
and  noisy  repetition  of  Hazlct's  name  perplexed  hire 


SUTON.  255 

extremely,  and  at  last  he  could  have  no  doubt  that  thej 
were  making  Hazlet  drunk,  and  then  painting  him ; 
nor  was  it  less  clear  that  many  of  them  -were  themselvefl 
half  intoxicated. 

It  had  of  course  been  impossible  for  Suton  and 
others  of  similar  character  to  avoid  noticing  the  ec- 
centricities of  dress  and  manner  which  had  been  the 
outward  indications  of  Hazlet's  recent  course.  When 
a  man  who  has  been  accustomed  to  dress  in  black,  and 
wear  tail  coats  in  the  morning,  suddenly  comes  out  in 
gorgeous  apparel,  and  begins  to  talk  about  cards,  bet- 
ting, and  theaters,  his  associates  must  be  very  blind  if 
they  do  not  observe  that  his  theories  are  undergoing  a 
tolerably  complete  revolution.  Suton  saw  with  regret 
mingled  with  pity  Hazlet's  contemptible  weakness,  and 
he  had  once  or  twice  endeavored  to  give  him  a  hint  of 
the  ridicule  which  his  metamorphosis  occasioned ;  but 
Hazlet  had  met  his  remarks  with  such  silly  arrogance, 
nay,  with  such  a  patronizing  assumption  of  superiority, 
that  he  determined  to  leave  him  to  his  own  experiences. 
This  did  not  prevent  Suton  from  feeling  a  strong  and 
righteous  indignation  against  the  iniquity  of  those  who 
were  inveigling  another  to  his  ruin,  and  he  felt  con- 
vinced that,  as  at  this  moment  Hazlet  was  being  unfairly 
treated,  it  was  his  duty  in  some  way  to  interfere. 

He  got  up  quietly,  and  walked  over  to  Bruce's 
-ooms.  His  knock  produced  instant  silence,  followed 
by  a  general  scuffle  as  the  men  endeavored  to  conceal 
the  worst  signs  of  their  recent  outrage.  When  Su- 
ton opened  the  door,  he  was  greeted  with  a  groan  of 

ierision. 

90 


254  "CANT" — SHAME    FOR    GLORY. 

"  Confound  you,"  said  Bruce,  "I  thought  it  must  b< 
the  senior  proctor  at  the  very  least." 

Without  noticing  his  remark,  Suton  quietly  said, 
"I  see,  Bruce,  that  you  have  been  treating  Ilazlet  in 
a  very  unwarrantable  way ;  he  is  clearly  not  in  a  fit 
condition  to  be  trifled  with  any  more  ;  you  must  help 
me  to  take  him  home." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  rather  a  good  joke.  I  shall  merely  shove 
him  into  the  street,  if  I  do  anything.  What  business 
has  he  to  make  a  beast  of  himself  in  my  rooms?" 

"What  business  have  you  to  do  the  devil's  work, 
and  tempt  others  to  sin  ?  You  will  have  a  terrible 
reckoning  for  it,  even  if  no  dangerous  consequences 
ensue,"  said  Suton  sternly. 

"  C-c-c-cant !"  said  Fitzurse. 

"  Yes — what  you  call  cant,  Fitzurse.  Y''ou  shall 
11  ear  some  more,  and  tremble,  sir,  while  you  hear  it," 
replied  Suton,  turning  toward  him,  and  raising  his 
hand  with  a  powerful  but  natural  gesture  ;  "  it  is  this  : 
'  Woe  unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink,  that 
putteth  thy  bottle  to  him,  and  makest  him  drunken 
also — tliou  art  filled  with  shame  for  glory.'  " 

"  Bruce,"  said  D'Acres,  the  least  flushed  of  the 
party,  "  I  really  think  we  ought  to  take  the  fellow 
home.     Just  look  at  him." 

Bruce  looked,  and  was  really  alarmed  at  the  grotesque 
yet  ghastly  expression  of  that  striped  and  sodden  face, 
with  the  straight  black  hair,  and  the  head  lolling  and 
rolling  on  the  shoulder.  Without  a  word,  he  took 
Hazlet  by  one  arm,  while  Suton  held  the  other,  and 
D'Acres  carried  the  legs,  and  as  quickly  as  they  could 
fcacy  hurried   along  ^vith  their   lifeless  burden    to  th<" 


tiazlet's  new  friends.  255 

gates  of  St.  Werner's.  It  was  long  past  the  usual 
hour  for  locking  up,  and  the  porter  took  down  the 
names  of  all  four  as  they  entered.  A  large  bribe  which 
D'Acres  offered  was  firmly  yet  respectfully  refused, 
and  they  knew  that  next  day  they  would  be  called  to 
account. 

Having  put  Hazlet  to  bed,  they  separated ;  Suton 
bade  the  others  a  stiff  "  Good  night ;"  and  D'Acres,  as 
he  left  Bruce,  said,  "Bruce,  we  have  been  doing  a  very 
blackguard  thing." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,"  said  Bruce. 

"Good!"  said  D'Acres;  and  "allow  me  to  add  that 
I  have  entered  your  rooms  for  the  last  time." 

Next  morning  'Suton  spoke  privately  to  the  porter, 
and  told  him  that  it  would  be  best  for  many  reasons 
not  to  report  what  had  taken  place  the  night  before, 
beyond  the  bare  fact  of  their  having  come  into  college 
late  at  night.  The  man  knew  Suton  thoroughly,  and 
respected  him ;  he  knew  him  to  be  a  man  of  genuine 
piety,  and  the  most  regular  habits,  and  consented, 
though  not  without  difficulty,  to  omit  all  mention  of 
Hazlet's  state.  All  four  had  of  course  to  pay  the 
usual  gate  fine,  and  D'Acres  and  Bruce  were  besides 
"  admonished"  by  the  senior  dean,  but  Suton  and 
Hazlet  were  not  even  sent  for.  The  dean  knew  Su- 
ton well,  and  felt  that  his  character  was  a  sufficient 
guaranty  that  he  had  not  been  in  any  mischief;  Hazlet 
had  been  irregular  lately,  but  the  dean  considered  him 
a  very  steady  man,  and  overlooked  for  the  present  this 
breach  of  rules. 

Of  course  all  St.  Werner's  laughed  over  the  story  of 
Hazlet's  escapade.     He  did  not  know  how  to  avoid  the 


256  WANING    CONFIDENCE. 

Btorm  of  ridicule  which  his  folly  had  stirred  up.  lie 
had  already  begun  to  drop  his  "congenial  friends"  for 
the  more  brilliant  society  to  which  Bruce  had  intro- 
duced him,  and  so  fat  from  admitting  that  he  felt  any 
compunction,  he  professed  to  regard  the  whole  matter 
merely  as  "an  amusing  lark."  Bruce  and  the  others 
hardly  condescended  to  apologize,  and  at  first  Hazlet, 
who  found  it  impossible  at  once  to  remove  all  traces  of 
the  paint,  and  who  for  a  day  or  two  felt  thoroughly 
unwell,  made  a  half  resolve  to  resent  their  coolness. 
But  now,  deserted  by  his  former  associates,  and  laughed 
at  by  the  majority  of  men,  he  found  the  society  of  his 
tempters  indispensable  for  his  comfort,  and  even  cringed 
to  them  for  the  notice  which  at  first  they  felt  inclined 
to  withdraw. 

"  Wasn't  that  trick  on  Hazlet  a  disgraceful  affair, 
Kennedy  ?"  said  Julian,  a  few  days  after.  "  Some  one 
told  me  you  were  at  the  supper  party ;  surely  it  can't 
be  true." 

"  I  was  for  about  an  hour,"  said  Kennedy,  blushing, 
"but  I  had  left  before  this  took  place." 

"  May  I  say  it,  Kennedy  ? — a  friend's,  a  brother's 
privilege,  you  know — but  it  surprises  me  that  you  care 
to  tolerate  such  company  as  that." 

"Believe  me,  Julian,  I  don't  enjoy  it." 

"  Then  why  do  you  frequent  it  ?" 

Kennedy  sighed  deeply  and  was  silent  for  a  tirae ; 
then  he  said, — 

"  '  Not  e'en  the  dearest  heart  and  next  our  own. 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  or  sigh.' '' 


(( 


True,"  said  Julian;  for  he  ha:l  long  observed  that 


BACKSLIDERS.  257 

some  heavy  weight  lay  on  Kennedy's  mind,  and  with 
deep  sorrow  noticed  that  their  intercourse  was  less 
cordial,  less  frequent,  less  intimate  than  before.  Not 
that  he  loved  Kennedy,  or  that  Kennedy  loved  him 
less  than  of  old,  for,  on  the  contrary,  Kennedy  yearned 
more  than  ever  for  the  full  cherished  unreserve  of  their 
old  friendship;  but,  alas!  there  was  not,  there  could 
not  be,  complete  confidence  between  them,  and  where 
there  is  not  confidence,  the  pleasure  of  friendship  grows 
dim  and  pale.  And,  besides  this,  new  tastes  were  grow- 
ing up  in  Edward  Kennedy,  and,  by  slow  and  fatal 
degrees,  were  developing  into  passions. 

Hazlet  had  come  to  Camford,  not  so  much  innocent 
as  ignorant.  He  had  never  learnt  to  restrain  and 
control  the  strong  tendencies  which,  in  the  quiet  shades 
of  Ildown,  had  been  sheltered  from  temptation.  Un- 
like Suton,  he  had  mistaken  the  language  of  a  sect  for 
the  utterances  of  the  heart,  and  was  unconscious  of  the 
weak  foundations  on  which  his  goodness  rested.  A 
few  months  before  he  would  have  heard  with  unmiti- 
gated horror  the  delinquencies  which  he  now  com- 
mitted without  a  scruple,  and  defended  without  a  blush. 
None  are  so  precipitate  in  the  career  of  sin  and  folly 
as  backsliders:  none  so  unchecked  in  the  downward 
course  as  those  to  whom  the  mystery  of  iniquity  is  sud- 
denly displayed  Avhen  they  have  none  of  the  gradual 
training  whereby  men  are  armed  to  resist  its  seductions. 

Who  does  not  know  from  personal  observation  that 
the  cycle  of  sins  is  bound  together  by  a  thousand  in- 
visible filaments,  and  that  myriads  of  unknown  con- 
nections unite  them  to  one  another  ?  Hazlet,  when  he 
had  once  "  forsaken   the  guide  of  his  youth,  and  for- 

22* 


258  UNDER    THE    LAMP. 

gotten  the  covenant  of  his  God,"  did  not  stop  short  at 
one  or  two  temptations,  and  yield  only  to  some  favorite 
vice.  With  a  rapidity  as  amazing  as  it  was  disastrous, 
he  developed  in  the  course  of  two  or  three  months  into 
one  of  the  most  shameless  and  dissipated  of  the  worst 
St.  Werner's  set.  There  was  something  characteristic 
in  the  way  in  which  he  frothed  out  his  own  shame, 
boasting  of  his  infamous  liberty  with  an  arrogance 
which  resembled  his  former  conceit  in  spiritual  supe- 
riority. 

Julian,  who  now  saw  less  of  him  than  ever,  had  no 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  him  as  to  his  course  of  life; 
but  at  last  an  incident  happened  which  persuaded  him 
that  further  silence  would  be  a  culpable  neglect  of  hia 
duty  to  his  neighbor. 

Montagu,  of  Roslyn  School,  came  up  to  Camford  to 
spend  a  Sunday  with  Owen,  and  Owen  asked  Julian 
and  Lillyston  to  meet  him.  They  liked  each  other 
very  much,  and  Julian  rapidly  began  to  regard  Mon- 
tagu as  a  real  friend.  In  order  to  see  as  much  of  each 
other  as  possible,  they  all  agreed  to  take  a  four-oar  on 
the  Saturday  morning,  and  row  to  Elnham  ;  at  Elnham 
they  dined  and  spent  two  pleasant  hours  in  visiting  the 
beautiful  cathedral,  so  that  they  did  not  get  back  to 
Camford  till  eleven  at  night. 

Their  way  from  the  boats  to  St.  Werner's  lay 
through  a  bad  part  of  the  town,  and  they  walked 
quickly,  Owen  and  Montagu  being  a  little  way  in 
front. 

A  few  gas-lights  were  burning  at  long  intervals  in 
the  narrow  lane  through  which  they  had  to  pass,  and, 
as  they  walked  under  one  of   them,  they  observed  a 


"simple  ones."  259 

group  of  fonr  standing  half  in  shadow.  One  of 
them  Julinn  instantly  recognized  as  tlie  very  vilest 
of  the  St.  "Werner  "  fast  men  ;"  another  was  Hazlet ; 
there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  company  in  which  he 
was. 

For  one  second  Julian  turned  back  to  look  in  sheer 
astonishment, — he  could  hardly  believe  the  testimon}' 
of  his  own  eyes.  The  figure  which  he  took  to  be  Haz- 
let hastily  retreated,  and  Julian  half-persuaded  himself 
that  he  was  mistaken. 

"  Did  you  see  who  that  was  ?"  asked  Lillyston, 
sadly. 

"Yes,"  said    Julian;   "'one  of   the  simple  ones;* 
'but  he  knoweth  not  that  the  dead  are  there,  and  that 
her  guests  are  in  the  depths  of  hell.'  " 
"  You  must  speak  to  him,  Julian." 
"  I  will." 

As  Hazlet  was  out  when  he  called,  Julian  wrote  on 
his  card :  "  Dear  H.,  will  you  come  to  tea  at  eight  ? 
Yours  ever,  J.  Home." 

At  eight  o'clock  accordingly,  Hazlet  was  seated,  as 
he  had  not  been  for  a  very  long  time,  by  Julian's  fire- 
side. Julian's  conversation  interested  him,  and  he 
could  not  help  feeling  a  little  humbled  at  the  unwor- 
thiness  which  prevented  him  from  more  frequently  en- 
joying it.  It  was  not  till  after  tea,  when  they  had 
pulled  their  chairs  to  the  fire,  that  Julian  said:  "  Haz- 
let, I  was  sorry  to  see  you  in  bad  company  last 
Qight." 

"  Me  !"  said  Hazlet,  feigning  surprise. 

"You!" 

Hazlet  saw  that  all  attempt  at  concealment  was  use- 


260  MUD    BATHS. 

less.     "For   God's  sake  don't  tell  my  mother,  or  anj 
of  the  Ildown  people,"  he  said,  turning  pale. 

"  Is  it  likely  I  should?  Yet  my  doing  so  would  be 
the  very  least  harm  that  could  happen  to  you,  Hazlet, 
;f  you  adopt  these  courses.  I  had  rather  see  you 
afraid  of  the  sin  than  of  the  detection." 

Ilazlet  stammered  in  self-defense  one  of  the  com- 
mon phrases  which  he  had  heard  but  too  often  in  the 
society  of  those  who  "  put  evil  for  good  and  good  for 
evil." 

Julian  very  quietly  tore  the  miserable  sophism  to 
shreds,  and  said:  "There  is  but  one  way  to  describe 
these  vices,  Hazlet, — they  are  deadly,  bitter,  ruinous." 

"  Oh,  they  are  very  common.     Lots  of  men " 

"Tush!"  said  Julian  ;  "  their  commonness,  if  in- 
deed it  be  so,  does  not  diminish  their  deadliness.  Not 
to  put  the  question  on  the  religious  ground  at  all,  I 
fully  agree  with  Carlyle  that,  on  the  mere  considera- 
tion of  expedience  and  physical  fact,  nothing  can  be 
more  fatal,  more  calamitous  than  '  to  burn  away  in 
mad  waste  the  divine  aromas  and  celestial  elements 
from  our  existence  ;  to  change  our  holy  of  holies  into 
a  place  of  riot ;  to  make  the  soul  itself  hard,  impious, 
arren. 

Ilazlet,  ashamed  and  bewildered,  confused  his  pres- 
ent position  with  old  reminiscences,  and  muttered  some 
balderdash  about  Carlyle  "not  being  sound." 

"  Carlyle  not  sound  ?"  said  Julian ;  "  good  heav- 
ens !  you  can  still  retain  the  wretched  babblements 
of  your  sectarianism  while  your  courses  are  what  they 


ire!' 


He  was  inclined  to  drop  the  conversation  in  sheer 


THE  MURDERER.  261 

disgust,  but  Hazlet's  pride  was  now  aroused,  and  he 
began  to  bluster  about  the  impertinence  of  interference, 
on  Julian's  part,  and  his  right  to  do  what  he  chose. 

"Certainly,"  said  Julian,  sternly,  "the  choice  lies 
with  yourself.  Run,  if  you  will,  as  a  bird  to  the  snare 
of  the  fowler,  till  a  dart  strike  you  through.  But  if 
you  are  dead  and  indifferent  to  your  own  miserable 
Boul,  think  that  in  this  sin  you  cannot  sin  alone ;  think 
that  you  are  dragging  down  to  the  nethermost  abyss 
others  besides  yourself.  Remember  the  wretched  vic- 
tims of  your  infamous  passions,  and  tremble  while  you 
desecrate  and  defiico  forever  God's  image  stamped  on 
a  fair  human  soul.  Think  of  those  whom  your  vilenesa 
dooms  to  a  life  of  loathliness,  a  death  of  shame  and 
anguish,  perhaps  an  eternity  of  horrible  despair.  Learn 
something  of  the  days  they  are  forced  to  spend,  tii.-.t 
they  may  pander  to  the  worst  instincts  of  your  de- 
graded nature;  days  of  squalor  and  drunkenness,  dis- 
ease and  dirt ;  gin  at  morning,  noon,  and  night ;  eating 
infection,  horrible  madness,  and  sudden  death  at  the 
end.  Can  you  ever  hope  for  salvation  and  the  light  of 
God's  presence,  while  the  cry  of  the  souls  of  which  you 
have  been  the  murderer — yes,  do  not  disguise  it,  the 
murderer^  the  cruel,  willing,  pitiless  murderer  —  is 
ringing  upward  from  the  depths  of  hell?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  murderer?"  said  Hazlet, 
with  an  attempt  at  misconception. 

"  I  mean  this,  Hazlet ;  setting  aside  all  considera- 
tions which  affect  your  mere  personal  ruin — not  men- 
tioning the  atrophy  of  spiritual  life  and  the  clinging 
sense  of  demadation  which  is  involved  in  such  a  course 
as  yours — I  want  you  to  see  if  you  will  be  honest, 


262  "procuress  to 

that  the  fault  is  yet  moro  deadly,  because  you  involve 
other  souls  and  other  lives  in  your  own  destruction.  la 
it  not  a  reminiscence  sufficient  to  kill  any  man's  hope, 
that  but  for  his  own  brutality  some  who  are  now  per- 
haps rotting  in  the  lazar-house  or  raving  in  the  asylum, 
min-ht  have  been  clasping  their  own  children  to  their 
happy  breasts,  and  wearing  in  unpolluted  innocence 
the  rose  of  matronly  honor  ?  Oh,  Hazlet,  I  have  heard 
you  talk  about  missionary  societies,  and  seen  your  name 
in  subscription  lists ;  but  believe  me  you  could  not,  by 
myriads  of  such  conventional  charities,  cancel  the  direct 
and  awful  quota  which  you  are  now  contributing  to  the 
aggregate  of  the  world's  misery  and  shame." 

It  took  a  great  deal  to  abash  a  mind  like  Hazlet's. 
He  said  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  clergyman,  and  that 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  see  something  of  life,  or  he 
would  never  acquire  the  requisite  experience. 

"Loathly  experience!"  said  Julian,  with  crushing 
scorn.  "And  do  you  ever  hope,  Hazlet,  by  centuries 
of  preaching  such  as  yours,  to  repair  one  millionth  part 
of  the  damage  done  by  your  bad  passions  to  a  single 
fellow-creature  ?  Such  a  hateful  excuse  is  verily  to 
carry  the  Urim  with  its  oracular  gems  into  the  very 
sty  of  sensuality,  and  to  debase  your  religion  into  '  a 
procuress  to  the  lords  of  hell.'  I  have  done ;  but  let 
me  say,  Hazlet,  that  your  self-justification  is,  if  possible, 
more  repulsive  than  your  sin." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  from  the  fire,  and  turned 
away,  as  Hazlet,  with  some  incoherent  sentences  about 
•'no  business  of  his,"  left  the  room,  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  him. 

What  are  words  but  weak  motions  of  vibrating  air? 


THE    LORDS    OF    HELL."  263 

Julian's  words  passed  by  the  warped  nature  of  Ilazlet 
like  the  idle  wind,  and  left  no  more  trace  upon  him 
than  the  snow-flake  when  it  has  melted  into  the  purpling 
eea.  As  the  weeks  went  on,  his  ill-regulated  passions 
grew  more  and  more  free  from  the  control  of  reason  or 
manliness,  and  he  sank  downward,  downward,  down- 
ward, into  the  most  shameful  abysses  of  an  idle,  and 
evil,  and  dissipated  life. 

And  the  germ  of  that  ruin  was  planted  by  the  hand 
of  the  clever,  and  gay,  and  handsome  Vyvyan  Bruce. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

DE     VAYNE's     temptation. 

"And  felt  how  awful  goodness  is,  and  virtue 
In  her  own  shape  how  lovely." 

Mii-ton's  Paradise  Lost. 

Shall  T  confess  it  ?  Pitiable  and  melancholy  as  was 
Hazlet's  course,  I  liked  liim  so  little  as  to  feel  for  him 
less  than  I  otherwise  should  have  done.  His  worst 
error  never  caused  me  half  the  pain  of  Kennedy's  most 
venial  fault.  Must  I  then  tell  a  sad  tale  of  Kennedy 
too — my  brave,  bright,  beautiful,  light-hearted  Ken- 
nedy, whom  I  always  loved  so  well  ?  May  I  not  throw 
over  the  story  of  his  college  days  the  rosy  colorings  of 
romance  and  fancy,  the  warm  sunshine  of  prosperity 
and  hope  ?  I  wish  I  might !  But  I  am  writing  of 
Camford — not  of  a  divine  Utopia  or  a  sunken  Ata- 
lantis. 

Bruce,  so  far  from  being  troubled  by  his  own  evil 
deeds,  was  proud  of  a  success  which  supported  a  pet 
theory  of  his  infidel  opinions.  He  made  no  sort  of 
secret  of  it,  and  laughed  openly  at  the  fool  whom  he 
had  selected  for  his  victim. 

"But,  after  all,"  said  Brogten,  who  had  plenty  of 
common  sense,  "your  triumph  was  very  slight." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  I  chose  the  most  obtrusively 
religious  man  in  St.  Werner's,  and,  in  the  course  of  a 
very  short  time,  I  had  him,  of  his  own  will,  roaring 
drunk." 

(264) 


« 


daren't.  265 

"  And  wh.at's  the  inference  ?" 

"  That  what  men  call  religion  is  half  cant,  half  the 
accident  of  circumstances." 

"  Pardon  me,  you're  out  in  your  conclusion  ;  it  only 
Bhows  that  Hazlet  was  a  hypocrite,  or  at  the  hest  a 
weak,  vain,  ignorant  fellow.  The  very  obtrusivenesa 
and  uncharitableness  of  his  religion  proved  its  unreality. 
Now  I  could  name  dozens  of  men  who  would  see  you 
dead  on  the  floor  rather  than  do  as  you  have  taught 
Ilazlet  to  do — men.  in  fact,  with  whom  you  simply 
daren't  try  the  experiment." 

'•'•  Daren  t!  why  not?" 

"Why,  simply  because  they  breathe  such  a  higher 
and  better  atmosphere  than  either  you  or  I,  that  you 
would  be  abashed  by  their  mere  presence." 

"Pooh  I  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Bruce,  with  an 
uneasy  laugh  ;   "mention  any  such  man." 

"  Well,  Suton  for  instance,  or  Lord  Dc  Vayne." 

"  Suton  is  an  unpleasant  fellow^,  and  I  shouldn't 
choose  to  try  him,  because  he's  a  bore.  But  I  bet  you 
wliat  you  like  that  I  make  De  Vayne  drunk  before 
a  month's  over." 

"  Done  !  I  bet  you  twenty  pounds  you  don't." 

Disgusting  that  the  young,  and  pure-hearted,  and 
.imiable  De  Vayne  should  be  made  the  butt  of  the 
machinations  of  such  men  as  Bruce  and  Brogten  !  But 
so  it  was.  So  it  was ;  I  could  not  invent  facts  like 
these.  They  never  could  float  across  my  imagination, 
or  if  they  did,  I  should  reject  them  as  the  monstrous 
chimeras  of  a  heated  brain.  I  can  conceive  a  man's 
private  wickedness, — the  wickedness  which  he  confines 

23 


\>66  so    IT    WAS. 

withm  his  own  heart,  and  only  brings  to  bear  upon 
otlicrs  so  far  as  is  demanded  bj  his  own  fancied  in- 
terests; 1  can  imagine,  too,  an  open  and  willing  part- 
nership in  villainy,  where  hand  joins  in  hand,  and  face 
answereth  to  face.  But  that  any,  knowing  the  plague 
of  their  own  hearts,  should  deliberately  endeavor  to 
lead  others  into  sin,  coolly  and  deliberately,  without 
even  the  blincljng  mist  of  passion  to  hide  the  path 
which  they  are  treading, — this,  if  I  had  not  known  that 
it  was  so,  I  could  not  have  conceived.  The  murderer 
who,  atom  by  atom,  continues  the  slow  poisoning  of  a 
perishing  body  for  many  months,  and  dies  amid  the 
yell  of  a  people's  execration — in  sober  earnest,  before 
God,  I  believe  he  is  less  guilty  than  he  who,  drop  by 
drop,  pours  into  the  soul  of  another  the  curdling  venom 
of  moral  pollution,  than  he  who  feeds  into  full-sized 
fury  the  dormant  monsters  of  another's  evil  heart. 
Surely  the  devil  must  welcome  a  human  tempter  with 
open  arms. 

Of  course  Bruce  had  to  proceed  with  Lord  De 
Vayne  in  a  manner  totally  different  from  that  which  he 
had  applied  to  Jedediah  Hazlet.  He  felt  himself  that 
the  task  was  far  more  difficult  and  delicate,  especially 
as  it  was  by  no  means  easy  to  get  access  to  De  Vayne's 
company  at  all.  Julian,  Lillyston,  Kennedy,  and  a 
few  others  formed  the  circle  of  his  only  friends,  and 
although  he  was  constantly  with  them,  he  was  rarely  to 
be  found  in  other  society.  But  this  was  a  difficulty 
which  a  man  with  so  large  an  acquaintance  as  Bruce 
vsould  easily  surmount  and  for  the  rest  he  trusted  to 
the  conviction  which  he  had  adopted,  that  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  sincere  godliness,  and  that  men  only  dif- 


PLAYING  THE  AGREEABLE.  267 

fered  in  proportion  to  the  Avcakness  or  intensity  of  the 
temptations  which  happened  to  assail  them. 

So  Bruce  managed,  without  any  apparent  maneuver- 
ing, to  see  more  of  De  Vayne  at  various  men's  rooms, 
and  he  generally  made  a  point  of  sitting  next  to  him 
when  he  could.  He  had  naturally  a  most  insinuating 
address  and  a  suppleness  of  manner  which  enabled  him 
to  adapt  himself  with  facility  to  the  tastes  and  tempera- 
ments of  the  men  among  whom  he  was  thrown.  There 
were  few  who  could  make  themselves  more  pleas- 
ant and  plausible  when  it  suited  them  than  Vyvyan 
Bruce. 

De  Vayne  soon  got  over  the  shrinking  with  which 
he  had  at  first  regarded  him,  and  no  longer  shunned 
the  acquaintance  of  which  he  seemed  desirous.  It  was 
not  until  this  stage  that  Bruce  made  any  serious  at- 
tempt to  take  some  steps  toward  winning  his  wager. 
He  asked  De  Vayne  to  a  dessert,  and  took  care  that 
the  wines  should  be  of  an  insidious  strength.  But  the 
young  nobleman's  abstemiousness  wholly  defeated  and 
baffled  him,  as  he  rarely  took  more  than  a  single 
glass. 

"You  pass  the  wine,  De  Vayne  ;  don't  do  that." 

"  Thank  you.  I've  had  enough." 

"Come,  come;  allow  me,"  said  Bruce,  filling  his 
glass  for  him. 

De  Vayne  drank  it  out  of  politeness,  and  Bruce 
repeated  the  same  process  soon  after. 

"  Come,  De  Vayne,  no  heel-taps,"  he  said  playfully, 
as  he  filled  his  glass  for  him. 

"  Thank  you,  I'd  really  rather  not  have  any 
more." 


268  COMUS 

"  Whj,  you  must  have  been  lending  your  ears  to 

"  '  Those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  fur, 
Praising  the  lean  and  sallow  abstinence.' 

You  take  nothing.      I  shall  abuse  my  wine  merchant.'' 

"  You  certainly  seem  as  anxious  as  Comus  that  I 
Bhould  drink,  Bruce,"  said  De  Vayne,  smiling;  "but 
really  I  mean  that  I  wish  for  no  more." 

Bruce  saw  that  he  had  overstepped  the  bounds  of 
politeness,  and  also  made  a  mistake  by  going  a  little 
too  far.  He  pressed  De  Vayne  no  longer,  and  the 
conversation  passed  to  other  subjects. 

"Anything  in  the  papers  to-day?"  asked  Brogten. 

"  Yes,  another  case  erf  wife-beating  and  wife-murder. 
What  a  dreadful  increase  of  those  crimes  there  has 
been  lately  !"  said  De  Vayne. 

"Another  proof,"  said  Bruce,  "of  the  gross  absurdity 
of  the  marriage  theory." 

De  Vayne  opened  his  eyes  wide  in  astonishment. 
Knowing  very  little  of  Bruce,  he  was  not  aware  that 
this  was  a  very  favorite  style  of  remark  with  him, — 
indeed,  a  not  uncommon  style  with  other  clever  young 
undergraduates.  He  delighted  to  startle  men  by  some- 
thing new,  and  dazzle  them  with  a  semblance  of  insight 
and  reasoning.  "  The  gross  absurdity  of  the  marriage 
theory,"  thought  De  Vayne  to  himself;  "I  wonder 
what  on  earth  he  can  mean  ?"  Fancying  he  must  have 
misheard,  he  said  nothing ;  but  Bruce,  disappointed 
that  his  remark  had  fallen  flat,  for  the  others  were  too 
much  used  to  the  kind  of  thing  to  take  any  notice  of  it, 
continued, — 

"  How  curious  it  is  that  the  whole  of  the  arguments 


THE    xMARRlAGE    THEOIIY — PICCIOLA  I  209 

should  be  against  marriage,  and  yet  that  it  shouhl  con- 
tinue to  he  an  institution.  You  never  find  a  person  to 
defend  it." 

"  ^At  quia  vituperavit  T  as  the  man  remarked,  on 
hearing  of  a  defense  of  Hercules,"  said  De  Vajne. 
"  I  should  have  thought  that  marriage,  like  the  Bible, 
'needed  no  apology.' ' 

"  My  dear  fellow,  it  surely  is  an  absurdity  on  the 
face  of  it  ?  see  how  badly  it  succeeds." 

Without  choosing  to  enter  on  that  question,  De  Vayne 
quietly  remarked,  "You  ask  why  marriage  exists.  Don't 
you  believe  that  it  was  originally  appointed  by  divine 
providence,  and  afterwards  sanctioned  by  divine  lips  ?" 
•'  Oh,  if  you  come-to  that  kind  of  ground,  you  know. 
and  abandon  the  aspect  of  the  question  from  the  side 
of  pure  reason,  you've  so  many  preliminaries  to  prove  ; 
e.g.  the  genuineness  and  authenticity  of  the  Pentateuch 
and  the  gospels ;  the  credibility  of  the  narrators ;  the 

possibility  of  their  being  deceived;  the " 

"  In  fact,"  said  De  Vayne,  "the  evidences  of  Chris- 
tianity. Well,  I  trust  that  I  have  studied  them,  and 
that  they  satisfy  alike  my  reason  and  my  conscience." 
"Ah,  yes!  Well,  it's  no  good  entering  on  those 
questions,  you  know.  I  shouldn't  like  to  shock  your 
convictions,  as  I  should  have  to  do  if  I  discussed  with 
you.  It's  just  as  well  after  all — even  in  the  nineteenth 
century — not  to  expose  the  exotic  flower  of  men's  belief 
to  the  rude  winds  of  fair  criticism.  Picciola  !  it  might 
be  blighted,  poor  thing,  which  would  be  a  pity.  Per- 
haps one  does  more  harm  than  good  by  exposing  anti- 
quated errors."     And  with  a  complacent  shrug  of  thtj 

23* 


270  SKEPTICAL    LITERATURE. 

elioulders,  and  a  hiight  smile  of  self-admira:ion,  Bruce 
leant  back  in  his  arm-chair. 

This  was  Bruce's  usual  way,  and  he  found  it  the 
most  successful.  There  were  a  great  many  minds  on 
whom  it  created  the  impression  of  immense  cleverness. 
''  That  kind  of  thing,  you  know,  it's  all  exploded  now," 
he  would  say  among  the  circle  of  his  admirers,  and  he 
would  give  a  little  waive  of  the  hand,  which  was  vastly 
effective — as  if  he  "  could  an  if  he  would"  puff  away 
the  whole  system  of  Christianity  with  quite  a  little 
breath  of  objection,  but  refrained  from  such  tyrannous 
use  of  a  giant's  strength.  "  It's  all  very  well,  you 
know,  for  parsons — though,  by  the  way,  not  half  of  the 
cleverest  believe  what  they  preach. — but  really  for  men 
of  the  world,  and  thinkers,  and  acute  reasoners" — oh, 
how  agreeable  it  was  to  the  Tulks  and  Boodles  to  be 
Included  in  such  a  category ! — "why,  after  such  hooka 
as  Frederic  of  Suabia  '  De  Tribus  Impostoribus,'  and 
Strauss'  '  Leben  Jesu,'  and  De  Wette,  and  Feuerbach, 
and  Van  Bohlen,  and  Nork,  one  can't  be  expected,  you 
know,  to  believe  such  a  mass  of  traditionary  rubbish." 
(Bruce  always  professed  acquaintance  with  German 
writers,  and  generally  quoted  the  titles  of  their  books 
in  the  original ;  it  sounded  so  much  better  ;  not  that  he 
had  read  one  of  them,  of  course.)  And  they  did  think 
him  so  clever  when  he  talked  in  this  way.  Only  think 
how  wise  he  must  be  to  know  such  profound  truths  ! 

But  so  far  from  Bruce's  hardly  concealed  contempt 
for  the  things  which  Christians  hold  sacred  producing 
any  effect  on  Lord  de  Vayne.  he  regarded  it  with  a 
silent  pity.  "I  hate,"  thought  he,  "when  Vice  can 
bolt  her  arguments,  and  Virtue  has  no  tongue  to  check 


ITH  URIEL.  271 

hev  pride."  The  annoying  impertinence,  so  frequent 
in  argument,  which  leads  a  man  to  speak  as  though, 
from  the  vantage-ground  of  great  intellectual  superiority 
to  his  oppommt,  the  graceful  aifectation  of  dropping  an 
argument  out  of  respect  for  prejudices  which  the  arguer 
despises,  or  an  incapacity  which  the  arguer  implies — 
this  merely  personal  consideration  did  not  ruffle  for  a 
moment  the  gentle  spirit  of  De  Vayne.  But  that  a 
young  man — conceited,  shallow,  and  ignorant — should 
profess  to  settle  with  a  word  the  controversies  which 
had  agitated  the  profoundest  reasons,  and  to  settle 
with  a  sneer  the  mysteries  before  which  the  mightiest 
thinkers  had  vailed  their  eyes  in  reverence  and  awe; 
that  he  should  profess  to  set  aside  Christianity  as  a 
childish  fable  not  worthy  a  wise  man's  acceptance,  and 
triumph  over  it  as  a  defeated  and  deserted  cause ;  this 
indeed  filled  De  Vayne's  mind  with  sorrow  and  disgust. 
So  far  from  being  impressed  or  dazzled  by  Bruce's 
would-be  cleverness,  he  sincerely  grieved  over  his  im- 
pudence and  folly. 

"  Thank  you,  Bruce,"  he  said,  after  a  slight  pause, 
and  with  some  dignity,  "  thank  you  for  your  kind  con- 
sideration of  my  mental  inferiority,  and  for  the  pitying 
regard  which  you  throw,  from  beside  your  nectar,  on 
my  delicate  and  trembling  superstitions.  But  don't 
think,  Bruce,  that  I  admit  your — may  I  call  it?  — 
impertinent  assumption  that  all  thinking  men  have 
thrown  Christianity  aside  as  an  exploded  error.  Some 
shadow  of  proof,  some  fragment  of  reason,  would  be 
more  satisfactory  treatment  of  a  truth  which  has  re- 
generated the  world,  than  foolish  assertion  or  insolenf 
contempt.     Good  night," 


272  BEADY    MONEY. 

There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  De  Vayne'a 
reproof  which  effectually  quelled  Bruce,  while  it  galled 
him ;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  delivered  with  such 
quiet  good  taste,  that  to  resent  it  was  impcssible.  Ho 
saw,  too,  not  without  vexation,  that  it  had  told  power- 
fully on  the  little  knot  of  auditors.  The  wine  party 
Boon  broke  up,  for  Bruce  could  neither  give  new  life  to 
the  conversation,  nor  recover  his  chagrin. 

"  So-ho  !"  said  Brogten,  when  they  were  left  alone, 
"  I  shall  win  my  bet." 

"  D d  if  you  shall !"  said  Bruce,  with  an  oath  of 

vexation.  In  fact,  not  only  was  he  determined  not  to 
be  foiled  in  proving  his  wisdom  and  power  of  reading 
men's  characters,  but  he  was  wholly  unable  to  afford 
any  payment  of  the  bet.  Bruce  could  get  unlimited 
credit  for  goods,  on  the  reputation  of  his  father's  wealth, 
but  money-dealers  were  very  sharp-eyed  people,  and 
he  found  it  much  less  easy  to  get  promissory  notes 
cashed.  It  was  a  matter  of  etiquette  to  pay  at  once 
"debts  of  honor,"  and  his  impetuous  disposition  led 
him  to  take  bets  so  freely  that  his  ready  money  was 
generally  drained  away  very  soon  after  his  return.  Not 
long  before  he  had  written  to  his  father  for  a  fresh  sup- 
ply, but,  to  his  great  surprise,  the  letter  had  only  pro- 
duced an  angry  and  even  indignant  reproof.  "Vyvyan," 
(his  father  had  written  not  even  "  dear  Vyvyan,")  "  I 
allow  you  X500  a  year,  a  sum  totally  out  of  proportion 
with  your  wants,  and  yet  you  are  so  shamefully  extrav- 
agant as  to  write  without  a  blush  to  ask  me  for  more. 
Don't  presume  to  do  it  again  on  pain  of  my  heavy  dis- 
pleasure." This  letter  had  so  amazed  him  that  he  did 
not  even  answer  it,  nor,  in  spite  of  his  mother's  earnest, 


1 


LAUDANUM.  273 

argent,  and  almost  lieart-rending  entreaties,  post  hy 
post,  would  he  even  condescend  to  write  home  for  nianj 
weeks.  It  was  the  natural  result  of  the  way  in  which 
at  home  they  had  pampered  his  vanity,  and  never 
checked  his  faults. 

But,  for  these  reasons,  it  was  wholly  out  of  Bruce's 
power  to  pay  Brogten  the  bet,  if  he  failed  in  trying  to 
shake  the  temperance  of  De  Vayne.  He  saw  at  once 
that  he  had  mistaken  his  subject ;  he  took  De  Vayne 
for  a  man  whose  goodness  and  humility  would  make 
him  pliant  to  all  designs. 

A  dark  thought  entered  Bruce's  mind. 

He  went  alone  into  a  druggist's  shop,  and  said,  with 
a  languid  air,  "  I  have  been  suffering  very  much  from 
sleeplessness  lately,  Mr.  Brent ;  I  want  you  to  give  me 
a  little  laudanum." 

"  Very  well,  sir.  You  must  be  careful  how  you 
use  it." 

"  Oh,  of  course.  How  many  drops  would  make  one 
drowsy,  now  ?" 

"Four  or  five,  sir,  I  should  think." 

"  Well,  you  must  give  me  one  of  those  little  bottles 
full.     I  w^ant  to  have  some  by  me,  to  save  trouble." 

The  chemist  filled  the  bottle,  and  then  said,  "  I'm 
afraid  I'm  out  of  my  poison  labels,  sir.  I'll  just  write 
a  little  ticket  and  tie  it  on." 

"All  right;"  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket,  Bruce 
strolled  away. 

But  how  to  see  De  Vayne  again  ?  He  thought  over 
their  common  acquaintances,  and  at  last  fixed  on  Ken- 
nedy as  the  likeliest  man  on  whom  he  could  depend  to 
secure  another  meeting.     Yet  he  hardly  liked  to  sug- 


274  I  WON'T. 

gest  that  Kennedy  should  give  a  wine  jarty,  ana 
<isk  De  Vavne  and  himself;  so  that  he  was  rather 
puzzled. 

"  I  say,  Brogten,  how  is  it  that  we  are  always  ask* 
iuo-  Kennedy  to  our  rooms,  and  he  so  very  seldom 
asks  us?" 

"  I  suppose  because  he  isn't  over-partial  to  our  com- 
pany." 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  Bruce,  who  considered  himself 
very  fascinating,  and  quite  a  person  whose  society  was 
to  be  courted ;   "  and  if  so,  why  does  he  come  to  our 

on 

rooms  : 

Brogten  might,  perhaps,  have  thrown  light  on  the 
subject,  had  he  chosen. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  give  him  a  hint." 

"  Do ;  and  get  him  to  ask  De  Vayne." 

Brogten  did  so ;  Kennedy  assented  to  asking  Bruce, 
though  he  listened  to  Brogten's  hints  (which  he  in- 
stantly understood)  with  a  sullenness  which  but  a  short 
time  before  had  no  existence,  not  even  a  prototype,  in 
his  bright  and  genial  character.  But  when  it  came  to 
asking  De  Vayne,  he  simply  replied  to  Brogten's  sug- 
gestion flatly, — 

"I  will  not." 

"Won't  you?  but  why?" 

"  Why  ?  because  I  suspect  you  and  that  fellow 
Bruce  of  wishing  to  treat  him  as  you  treated  Hazlet." 

"  I've  no  designs  against  him  whatever." 

"  Well,  I  won't  ask  him, — that's  flat." 

"  Whew-ew-ew-ew-ew  !"  Brogten  began  to  whistle 
and  Kennedy  relieved  his  feelings  by  digging  the  pokoi 
into  the  fire.     And  then  there  was  a  pause. 


A    GUILTY    SECRET.  21f\ 


li 


I  want  you  to  ask  De  Vayne." 

"And  I  tell  you  I  won't  ask  him." 

"  Whew-w-w-w!"  Another  long  whistle,  during  which 
Kennedy  mashed  and  battered  the  black  lumps  that 
smoldered  in  the  grate. 

"  Whew-ew-ew-ew  !  Oh,  very  well."  Brogten  left 
the  room.  At  hall  that  day,  Brogten  took  care  to  sit 
near  Kennedy  again,  and  the  old  scene  was  nearly  re 
enactei.  He  turned  the  conversation  to  the  Christ- 
mas examination.  "  I  suppose  you'll  be  very  high, 
again,  Kennedy." 

"No,"  said  he,  curtly.  "I've  not  read,  and  you 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Oh,  but  you  hadn't  read  much  last  time,  and  you 
may  do  some  particular  paper  very  well,  you  know.  I 
wish  there  was  an  ^schylus  paper;  you  might  be  first, 
you  know,  again." 

Kennedy  flung  down  his  knife  and  fork  with  a  curse, 
and  left  the  hall.  Men  began  to  see  clearly  that  there 
must  have  been  some  mystery  attached  to  the  ^schy- 
lus  paper,  known  to  Brogten  and  Kennedy,  and  very 
discomforting  to  the  latter.  But  as  Kennedy  was  con- 
cerned, they  did  not  suspect  the  truth. 

Brogten  went  straight  from  hall  to  Kennedy's  rooms. 
lie  found  the  door  sported,  but  knew  as  well  as  possi- 
ble that  Kennedy  was  in.  He  hammered  and  thumped 
at  the  door  a  long  time  with  sundry  imprecations,  but 
Kennedy,  moodily  resolute,  heard  all  the  noise  inside, 
and  would  not  stir.  Then  Brogten  took  out  a  card  and 
wrote  on  the  back :  "  I  think  you'll  ask  De  Vayne,'' 
and  dropped  it  into  the  letter-box. 

That  evening  he  found  in  his  own  letter-box  a  slip 


276  WINE    AND    WATER. 

of  paper  "  De  Vayne  is  coming  to  wine  with  me  to- 
morrow. Come,  and  the  foul  fiend  take  you.  I  havi. 
filled  my  decanters  half  full  of  water,  and  won't  bring 
out  more  than  one  bottle.     E.  K." 

Brogten  read  the  note  and  chuckled, — partly  with 
the  thought  of  Kennedy,  partly  of  Bruce,  partly  of 
De  Vayne.  Yet  the  chuckle  ended  in  a  very  heavy 
sigh. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

KENNEDY  S    WINE    PARTY,  AND    WHAT    CAME    OF    IT 

"  Et  je  n'ai  moi 
Par  la  sang  Dieu ! 
Ni  foi,  ni  loi, 
Ni  jeu,  ni  lieu, 
Ni  roi,  ni  Dieu." 

Victor  Hugo,  Notre  Dame  de  Paris. 

'*  Nay,  that's  certain  ;  but  yet  the  pity  of  it, 

lago  ! — 0  lago,  the  pity  of  it,  lago !" — Othello,  iv.  1. 

"Are  you  going  to  Kennedy's,  Julian?"  asked  De 
V^ayne. 

"No." 

"  I  wish  he'd  asked  you." 

Julian  a  little  wondered  why  he  had  not,  hut  re- 
membered, with  a  sigh,  that  there  was  something, 
he  knew  not  what,  between  him  and  Kennedy.  Yet 
Kennedy  was  engaged  to  Violet !  The  thought  car- 
ried him  back  to  the  beautiful  memories  of  Grindel- 
wald  and  Mlirrem, — perhaps  of  Eva  Kennedy :  I  will 
not  say. 

As  De  Vayne  glanced  round  at  the  men  assembled 
at  Kennedy's  rooms,  he  felt  a  little  vexation,  and  half- 
wished  he  had  not  come.  Why  on  earth  did  Kennedy 
gee  so  much  of  these  Bruces  and  Brogtens  when  he  was 
so  thoroughly  unlike  them?  But  De  Vayne  consoled 
himself  with  the  reflection  that  the  evening  could  not 
fail  to  be  pleasant,  as  Kennedy  was  there;  for  he  liked 

24  (277) 


278  CONSIDERATE. 

Kennedy  both  for  Julian's  sake  and  for  his  own.  Hap- 
pily for  him  he  did  not  know  as  yet  that  Kennedy  was 
affianced  to  Violet  Home. 

Kennedy  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table  with  a  gloomy 
cloud  on  his  brow.  "  Here,  De  Vayne,"  he  said  : 
"  I'm  so  really  glad  to  see  you  at  last.  Sit  by  me — 
here's  a  chair." 

De  Vayne  took  the  proffered  seat,  and  Bruce  imme- 
diately seated  himself  at  his  left  hand.  At  first,  as 
the  wine  was  passed  round,  there  seemed  likely  to  be 
but  little  conversation  ;  but  suddenly  some  one  started 
the  subject  of  a  '-'■  cause  celehrc^'  which  was  then  filling 
the  papers,  and  Kennedy  began  at  once  to  discuss  it 
with  some  interest  to  De  Vayne,  who  sat  nearly  facinc 
him,  almost  with  his  back  turned  to  Bruce,  who  did 
not  seem  particularly  anxious  to  attract  De  Vayne's 
attention. 

"  What  execrable  wash !"  said  Brogten,  emptying 
his  glass. 

De  Vayne,  surprised  and  disgusted  at  the  rudeness 
of  the  remark,  turned  hastily  round,  and,  while  Bruce 
as  hastily  withdrew  his  hand,  raised  the  wineglass  to 
his  lips. 

"Stop,  stop,  De  Vayne,"  said  Bruce,  eagerly; 
"there's  a  fly  in  your  glass." 

"I  see  no  fly,"  said  De  Vayne,  glancing  at  it,  and 
immediately  draining  it,  with  the  intention  of  saying 
something  to  smooth  Kennedy's  feelings,  which  he  sup- 
posed would  have  been  hurt  by  Brogten's  want  of  coaa- 
mon  politeness. 

"I  think  it  very "    Why  did  his  words  fail,  and 

what  was  the  reason  of  that  scared  look  with  which  he 


"NOT    A    FLY,    BUT — "  2?!^ 

regarded  the  blank  faces  of  the  other  undergraduates  ? 
And  what  is  the  meaning  of  that  gasp,  and  the  rapid 
dropping  of  the  head  upon  the  breast,  and  the  deadly 
pallor  that  suddenly  put  out  the  fair  color  in  his 
cheeks?  There  was  no/Z?/ — but,  good  heavens!  was 
there  death  in  the  glass? 

The  whole  party  leapt  up  from  their  places,  and 
gathered  round  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  De  Vayne  ?"  said  Kennedy, 
tenderly,  as  he  knelt  down  and  supported  the  young 
man  in  his  arms.  But  there  was  no  answer.  "  Here, 
D'Acres,  or  somebody,  for  heaven's  sake  fetch  a  doc- 
tor;  he  must  have  been  seized  with  a  fit !" 

"  What  have  you  been  doing,  Bncce !"  thundered 
Broerten. 

"Bruce  doing!"  said  Kennedy,  wildly,  as  he  sprang 
to  his  feet.  "  By  the  God  above  us,  if  I  thought  this 
was  any  of  your  devilish  machinations,  I  would  strike 
you  to  the  earth." 

"Doing?  I?"  stammered  Bruce.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  He  trembled  in  every  limb,  and  his  face  was 
as  pale  as  that  of  his  victim  ;  yet,  though  perhaps  De 
Vayne's  life  depended  on  it,  the  young  wretch  would 
not  say  what  he  had  done.  He  had  meant  but  to  put 
four  or  five  drops  into  his  glass,  but  De  Vayne  had 
turned  round  suddenly,  and  startled  him  in  the  very 
act,  and,  in  the  hurried  agitation  of  the  moment,  his 
hand  had  slipped,  and  he  had  poured  in  all  the  con- 
tents of  the  bottle,  with  barely  time  to  hurry  it  empty 
into  his  pocket,  or  to  prevent  the  consequences  of 
what  he  had  done,  when  De  Vayne  lifted  the  glass  tc 
ois  lips. 


280  POISONED. 

The  men  all  stood  round  De  Vayne  and  Kennedy 
m  a  helpless  crowd,  and  Kennedy  said:  "  Here,  fetch 
a  doctor,  somebody,  and  let  all  go  except  D'Acres ;  so 
many  are  only  in  the  way." 

The  little  group  dispersed,  and  two  of  them  ran  off 
to  find  a  doctor ;  but  Bruce  stood  there  still,  with  open 
mouth,  and  a  countenance  as  pale  in  its  horror  as  that 
of  the  fainting  viscount.  He  was  anxious  to  tell  the 
truth  about  the  matter,  in  order  to  avert  worse  conse- 
quences, and  yet  he  dared  not, — the  words  died  away 
upon  his  lips. 

"  Don't  stand  like  that,  Bruce,"  said  Brogten,  in- 
dignantly; "  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  make  yourself 
useful.  Go  and  get  the  key  of  De  Vayne's  rooms 
from  the  porter's  lodge.  Stop,  though  !  it  will  prob- 
ably be  in  his  pocket.  Yes,  here  it  is.  Run  and 
unlock  his  door,  while  we  carry  him  to  bed." 

Bruce  took  the  key  with  trembling  hand,  and  shook 
so  violently  with  nervous  agitation,  that  he  could  hardly 
make  his  way  across  the  court.  The  others  carried  De 
Vayne  to  his  bedroom  as  quickly  as  they  could,  and 
anxiously  awaited  the  doctor's  arrival.  The  livid  face, 
with  the  dry  foam  upon  the  lips,  filled  them  with  alarm, 
but  they  had  not  any  conception  what  to  do,  and  fan- 
cied that  De  Vavne  was  in  a  fit. 

ft/ 

It  took  Dr.  Masham  a  very  short  time  to  see  that 
his  patient  was  suffering  from  the  influence  of  some 
poison,  and  when  he  discovered  this,  he  cleared  the 
room,  and  at  once  applied  the  proper  remedies.  But 
time  had  been  lost  already,  and  he  was  the  less  able  to 
Bet  to  work  at  first,  from  his  complete  ignorance  of 
<^hat  had  happened      He  sat  up  all  night  with  his  pa- 


EARK    RUMORS.  281 

tient,  but  was  more  than  doubtful  wbether  it  was  not 
too  late  to  save  his  life. 

The  news  that  De  Vayne  had  been  seized  with  a  fit 
at  Kennedy's  rooms,  soon  changed  into  a  darker  ru- 
mor. Men  had  not  forgotten  the  affair  of  Hazlet, 
and  they  suspected  that  some  foul  play  had  been 
practiced  on  one  whom  all  who  knew  him  loved,  and 
whom  all,  though  personally  unacquainted  with  hira, 
heartily  respected.  That  this  was  really  the  fiict,  soon 
ceased  to  be  a  secret;  but  who  was  guilty,  and  what 
had  been  the  manner  or  motivesi  of  the  crime,  remained 
unknown,  and  this  uncertainty  left  room  for  the  wild- 
est surmises. 

The  dons  were  not  slow  to  hear  what  had  happened, 
and  they  regarded  the  matter  in  so  serious  a  light  that 
they  summoned  a  seniority  for  its  immediate  investi- 
gation. Kennedy  was,  obviously,  the  first  person  of 
whom  to  make  inquiries,  and  he  told  them  exactly  what 
had  occurred,  viz.,  that  De  Vayne,  after  drinking  a 
single  glass  of  wine,  fell  back  in  his  chair  in  the  con- 
dition wherein  he  still  continued. 

"  Was  anything  the  matter  with  the  wine,  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy ?"  asked  Mr.  Norton,  who,  as  one  of  the  tutors, 
had  a  seat  on  the  board. 

"  Nothing,  sir ;  it  was  the  same  which  we  were  all 
drinking." 

"  And  without  any  bad  effects  V" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"But,  Mr.  Kennedy,  there  seems  strong  reason  to 
believe  that  some  one  drugged  Lord  De  Vayne'swinel 
Were  you  privy  to  such  plans?" 

24* 


282  CROSS-EXAMINATION. 

"  No,  sir — not  exactly ;"  said  Kennedy,  slowly  and 
tvitli  hesitation. 

"  Really,  sir,"  said  the  master  of  St.  Werner's, 
"  such  an  answer  is  grossly  to  your  discredit.  Favor 
us  by  being  more  explicit ;  what  do  you  mean  by  '  not 
exactly?'" 

Kennedy's  passionate  and  fiery  pride,  which  had 
recently  increased  with  the  troubles  and  self-reproba- 
tion of  his  life,  could  ill  brook  such  questioning  as  this, 
and  he  answered  haughtily, — 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  anything  of  this  kind  was 
intended." 

"Anything  of  tltis  kind!  you  did,  then,  expect 
something  to  take  place?" 

•'  I  thought  I  had  taken  sufficient  precaution  against 
It. 

"Against  it !  against  what?''  asked  Mr.  Norton. 

Kennedy  looked  up  at  his  questioner,  as  though  he 
read  in  his  face  the  decision  as  to  whether  he  should 
speak  or  not.  He  would  hardly  have  answered  the 
master,  or  any  of  the  others,  but  Mr.  Norton  was  his 
friend,  and  there  was  something  so  manly  and  noble 
about  his  look  and  character,  that  Kennedy  was  en- 
couraged to  proceed ;   and  he  said  slowly, — 

"  I  suspected,  sir,  that  there  was  some  intention  of 
attempting  to  make  De  Vayne  drunk." 

"You  suspected  that,"  said  Mr.  Norton,  with  as- 
tonishment and  scorn,  "  and  yet  you  lent  your  rooms 
for  such  a  purpose?  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Kennedy; 
heartily  and  utterly  ashamed." 

Kennedy's  spirit  was  roused  by  this  bitter  and 
public  apostrophe.     "  I  lent  my  rooms  for  no  such  pur- 


SUSPICIONS,  283 

pose ;  on  the  contrary,  if  it  existed,  I  diii  my  best  tc 
defeat  it." 

"  What  made  you  suspect  it  ?"  asked  Dr.  Rhodes, 
the  master. 

"Because  a  similar  attempt  was  practiced  on  an- 
other." 

"  At  which  it  seems  that  you  were  present." 

"I  was  not."  Kennedy  was  too  fiercely  angry  to 
answer  in  more  words  than  was  absolutely  required. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  Kennedy,  you  have  not 
cleared  yourself  from  the  great  disgrace  of  giving  an 
invitation,  though  you  supposed  that  it  would  be  made 
the  opportunity  for  perpetrating  an  infamous  piece 
of  mischief.  Can  you  throw  no  more  light  on  the 
subject  ?" 

"None." 

"  Will  you  bring  the  decanter  out  of  which  Lord 
De  Vayne  drank  ?"  said  one  of  the  seniors  after  a  pause, 
and  with  an  intense  belief  in  the  acuteness  of  the  sug- 
gestion. 

"  I  don't  see  what  good  it  will  do,  but  I  will  order 
my  gyp  to  carry  it  here  if  you  wish." 

"  Do  so,  sir.  And  let  me  add,"  said  the  master, 
"that  a  little  more  respectfulness  of  manner  would  be 
becoming  in  your  present  position." 

Kennedy's  lip  curled,  and  without  answer  he  left  the 
room  to  fetch  the  wine,  grimly  chuckling  at  the  effect 
which  the  mixture  would  produce  on  Mr.  Norton's 
Fastidious  taste.  When  he  reached  hi?  rooms,  he 
stumbled  against  the  table  in  his  hurry,  and  upset  a 
little  glass  dish  which  held  his  pencils,  one  of  which 
rolled  away  under  the  fender.     In  lifting  the  fender  to 


284  A    WRITTEN    LABEL. 

pick  it  up,  a  piece  of  paper  caught  his  oyo,  which  the 
bod-maker  in  cleaning  the  room  had  swept  out  of  sight 
in  the  morning.  He  looked  at  it,  and  saw  in  legible 
characters,  "  Laudanum,  Poison."  It  was  the  label 
which  had  been  loosely  tied  on  Bruce's  phial,  and 
which  had  slipped  off  as  he  hurried  it  into  his  pocket. 

He  read  it,  and  as  the  horrid  truth  flashed  across 
his  mind,  stood  for  a  moment  stupefied  and  dumb.  His 
plan  was  instantly  formed.  Instead  of  returning  to  the 
conclave  of  seniors,  he  ran  straight  ofi"  to  the  chemist's, 
which  was  close  by  St.  Werner's. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  this  label  ?"  he  said, 
thrusting  it  into  the  chemist's  hands. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  after  looking  at  it  for  a 
moment;  "it  is  the  label  of  a  bottle  of  laudanum 
which  I  sold  yesterday  morning  to  Mr.  Bruce  of  St. 
Werner's." 

Without  a  word,  Kennedy  snatched  it  from  him, 
and  rushed  back  to  the  seniority,  who  were  already 
beginning  to  wonder  at  his  long  absence.  He  threw 
down  the  piece  of  paper  before  Mr.  Norton,  who  handed 
it  to  the  master. 

"  I  found  that,  sir,  on  the  floor  of  my  room." 

"  And  you  know  nothing  of  it  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  belongs  to  a  bottle  purchased  yesterday 
by  Bruce." 

Amazement  and  horror  seemed  to  struggle  in  the 
minds  of  the  old  clergymen  and  lecturers  as  they  sat 
ftt  the  table. 

"We  must  send  instantly  for  this  young  man,"  said 
Mr.  Norton;  and  in  ten  minutes  Bruce  entered,  pale, 
indeed,  but  in  a  faultless  costume,  with  a  bow  of  easy 


ENTER    BRUCE.  28£ 

gi'uce,  unci  a  smile  of  polite  recognition  toward  such  of 
the  board  as  he  personally  knew.  He  was  totally 
unaware  ol  what  had  been  going  on  during  Kennedy's 
jross-exammation. 

"Mr.  Bruce/'  said  Mr.  Norton,  to  whom  they  all 
seemed  gladly  to  resign  the  task  of  discovering  the 
truth,  "  do  you  know  anything  of  the  cause  of  Lord 
De  Vayne's  sudden  attack  of  illness  last  night." 

"I,  sir?     Certainly  not." 

"  He  sat  next  to  yon,  did  he  not  ?" 

"He  did,  I  believe.  Yes.  I  can't  be  quite  sure— • 
but  I  think  he  did." 

"You  know  he  did  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  Kennedy. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,  let  me  request  you  to  be  silent. 
Mr.  Bruce,  had  you  any  designs  against  Lord  De 
Yayne  ?"' 

"  Designs,  sir  ?  excuse  me,  but  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
understand  your  meaning." 

"  You  had  no  intention  then  of  making  him  drunk  ?" 

"  Really,  sir,  you  astonish  me  by  such  coarse  im- 
putations. Is  it  you,"  he  said,  turning  angrily  to 
Kennedy,  "who  have  been  saying  such  things  of  me?" 

Kennedy  deigned  no  reply. 

"I  should  think  the  testimony  of  a  man  who  doesn't 
scruple  secretly  to  read  examination  papers  before 
they  are  set,  ought  not  to  stand  for  much."  Brogten, 
as  we  have  already  mentioned,  had  revealed  to  him 
the  secret  of  Kennedy's  dishonor.  This  remark  fell 
qoiite  dead :  Kennedy  sat  unmoved,  and  Mr.  Norton 
replied, — 

"  Pray  don't  introduce  youi  personal  altercations 
here,  Mr.  Bruce,  on  irrelevant  topics.     Mr.  Bruce,' 


286  CONVICTED— THE   SENTENCE. 

he  continued,  suddenly  giving  him  the  label    "  have  you  I 

ever  seen  that  before  ?"  ^ 

With  a  cry  of  agony,  Bruce  saw  the  paper,  and 
struck  his  forehead  with  his  hand.  The  sudden  blow 
of  shameful  detection  with  all  its  train  of  consequences 
utterly  unmanned  him,  and,  falling  on  his  knees,  he 
cried  incoherently, — 

"  Oh  !  I  did  it,  I  did  it.  I  didn't  mean  to ;  my  hand 
slipped :  indeed,  indeed  it  did.  For  God's  sake  for- 
give me,  and  let  this  not  be  known.  I  will  give  you 
thousands  to  hush  it  up " 

A  general  exclamation  of  indignation  and  disgust 
stopped  his  prayers,  and  the  master  gave  orders  that 
he  should  be  removed  and  watched.  He  was  dragged 
away,  tearing  his  hair  and  sobbing  like  a  child.  Ken- 
nedy, too,  was  ordered  to  retire. 

It  took  the  seniors  but  a  short  time  to  deliberate, 
and  then  Bruce  was  summoned.  He  would  have  spoken, 
but  the  master  sternly  ordered  him  to  be  silent,  and  said 
to  him, — 

"Vyvyan  Bruce,  you  are  convicted  by  your  own 
confession,  extorted  after  deliberate  falsehood,  of  having 
wished  to  drug  the  wine  of  a  fellow-student  for  the  pur- 
pose of  entrapping  him  into  a  sin,  to  which  you  would 
otherwise  have  failed  to  tempt  him.  What  fearful 
results  may  follow  from  your  wickedness  we  cannot  yet 
know,  and  you  may  have  to  answer  for  this  crime  before 
another  tribunal.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  tell  you  that  your  time  as  a  student  at  St.  Wer- 
ner's'has  ended.  You  are  expelled,  and  I  now  proceed 
to  erase  your  name  from  the  books."  (Here  the  master 
ran  his  pen  two  or  three  times  through  Bruce's  signa- 


THE    SENIOR    DEAN.  287 

ture  in  the  college  register.)  "Your  rooms  must  be 
finally  vacated  to-morrow.  You  need  say  nothing  in 
self-defense,  and  may  go."  As  Bruce  seemed  determ- 
ined to  plead  his  own  cause,  they  ordered  the  attendant 
to  remove  him  immediately. 

Kennedy  was  then  sent  for,  and  they  could  not  help 
pitying  him,  for  he  was  a  favorite  with  them  all. 

"Mr.  Kennedy,"  said  the  senior  dean,  "the  master 
desires  me  to  admonish  you  for  your  very  culpable  con- 
nivance— for  I  have  no  other  name  for  it  —  in  the 
great  folly  and  wickedness  of  which  Bruce  has  been 
convicted " 

"  I  did  not  connive  !"  said  Kennedy. 

"  Silence,  sir  !" 

"  But  I  will  not  keep  silence;  you  accuse  me  falsely.  * 

"  We  shall  be  obliged  to  take  further  measures,  Mr. 
Kennedy,  if  you  behave  in  this  refractory  way." 

"  I  don't  care  what  measures  you  take.  I  cannot 
listen  in  silence  to  an  accusation  which  I  loathe — of  a 
crime  of  which  T  am  wholly  innocent." 

"  Why,  sir,  you  confessed  that  you  suspected  some 
unfair  design." 

"  But  not  this  design.     Proceed,  sir  ;  I  will  not  m 
ternipt  you  again  ;  but  let  me  say  that  I  am  totally 
indifferent  to  any  blame  which  you  throw  on  me  for  a 
brutality  of  which   the  whole   responsibility  rests   on 
others." 

The  thread  of  the  dean's  oration  was  quite  broken 
by  Kennedy's  impetuous  interruption,  and  he  merely 
added:  "Well,  Mr.  Kennedy,  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so 
little  penitent  for  the  position  in  which  you  have  placed 
yourself.     You  have  disappointed  the  expectation  of  al) 


288  EXIT   BRUCE. 

your  friends,  and  however  you  may  brazen  it  out,  your 
character  has  contracted  a  stain." 

"  You  can  say  so,  sir,  if  you  choose,"  said  Kennedy, 
and  he  left  the  room  with  a  formal  bow. 

A  few  days  after,  Mr.  Grayson  asked  him  to  what 
Bruce  had  alluded  in  his  insinuation  about  an  examina- 
tion paper  ? 

"  He  alludes,  sir,  to  an  event  which  happened  some 
time  ago." 

Further  questions  were  useless ;  nevertheless  Ken- 
nedy saw  that  his  tutor's  suspicions  were  not  only 
aroused,  but  that  they  had  taken  the  true  direction. 
Mr.  Grayson  despised  him,  and  in  St.  Werner's  he  had 
lost  caste. 

That  evening  Bruce  vanished  from  Camford,  with 
the  regrets  of  few  except  his  tailors  and  his  duns.  To 
this  day  he  has  not  payed  his  college  debts  or  dis- 
charged the  bill  for  the  gorgeous  furniture  of  his  rooms. 
But  we  shall  hear  of  him  again. 


CHAPTER  XX  LY. 

DE  VAYNE's    CHRISTMAS    HOLIDAYS, 

"He  ths.t  for  love  hath  undergone 

The  worst  that  can  befall, 
Is  happier  thousandfold  than  one 

Who  never  loved  at  all. 
A  grace  within  his  soul  hath  reigned, 

Which  nothing  else  can  bring ; 
Thank  God  for  all  that  I  have  gained 

By  that  high  suffering." — Moncton  Milnes. 

For  many  days  Lord  De  Vayne  seemed  to  be 
hovering  between  life  and  death.  The  depression  of 
his  spirits  weighed  upon  his  frame,  and  greatly  retarded 
his  recovery.  That  he,  unconscious  as  he  was  of  ever 
having  made  an  enemy — good  and  gentle  to  all — with 
no  desire  but  to  love  his  neighbor  as  himself,  and  to 
devote  such  talents  and  such  opportunities  as  had  been 
vouchsafed  him  to  God's  glory  and  man's  benefit ; 
that  he  should  have  been  made  the  subject  of  a  dis- 
graceful wager, and  the  butt  of  an  infamous  experiment; 
that  in  endeavoring  to  carry  out  this  nefarious  plan, 
any  one  should  have  been  so  wickedly  reckless,  so 
criminally  thoughtless,  —  this  knowledge  lay  on  his 
imagination  with  a  depression  as  of  coming  death.  De 
Vayne  had  been  but  little  in  St.  Werner's  society,  and 
had  rarely  seen  any  hut  his  few  chosen  friends  ;  and 
that    such   a   calamity  should    have   happened    in   the 

25  (289) 


290  HEART-SICK. 

rooms  and  at  the  table  of  one  of  those  friends  ;  that 
Kennedy,  whom  he  so  much  loved  and  admired, 
should  be  suspected  of  being  privy  to  it,  —  this  fact 
was  one  which  made  De  Vayne's  heart  sink  within 
him  with  anguish  and  horror,  and  a  weariness  of  life. 

And  in  those  troubled  waters  of  painful  thought 
floated  the  broken  gleams  of  a  golden  phantasy,  the 
i-ainbow-colored  memories  of  a  secret  love.  They  came 
like  a  light  upon  the  darkened  waves,  yet  a  light  too 
feeble  to  dissipate  the  under  gloom.  Like  the  phos- 
phorescent flashes  in  the  sea  at  midnight,  which  the 
lonely  voyager,  watching  with  interest  as  they  glow  in 
tlie  white  wake  of  the  keel,  guesses  that  they  may  be 
the  heralds  of  a  storm,  —  so  these  bright  reminiscences 
of  happier  days  only  gave  a  weird  beauty  to  the  tunuilt 
of  the  sick  boy's  mind  ;  and  the-  mother,  as  she  sat  by 
him  night  and  day  during  the  crisis  of  his  suffering, 
listened  with  a  deeper  anxiety  for  future  trouble  to 
the  delirious  revelations  of  his  love. 

For  Lady  De  Vayne  had  come  from  Uther  Hall  to 
nurse  her  sick  son.  She  slept  on  a  sofa  in  his  sitting 
room,  and  nursed  him  with  such  tenderness  as  only  a 
mother  can.  There  was  no  immediate  possibility  of 
removing  him  ;  deep,  imbroken  quiet  was  his  only 
chance  of  life.  The  silence  of  his  sick-room  was  un- 
disturbed save  by  the  softest  whispers  and  the  hghtest 
footfalls,  and  the  very  undergraduates  hushed  their 
voices,  and  checked  their  hasty  steps  as  they  passed 
in  the  echoing  cloisters  underneath,  and  remembered 
that  the  flame  of  life  was  flickering  low  in  the  golden 
Fase. 

De  Vayne  was  much  beloved,  and  nothing  could  ey- 


THE   VACATION.  291 

ceed  the  delicacy  of  the  attention  shown  him.  ChoifG 
conservatory  flowers  were  left  almost  daily  at  his  door, 
and  men  procured  rare  and  rich  fruits  from  home  or 
from  London,  not  because  De  Vayne  needed  any  such 
luxuries,  which  were  easily  at  his  command,  but  that 
they  might  show  him  their  sympathy  and  distress. 
Several  ladies,  more  or  less  connected  with  St.  Wer- 
ner's, oifered  their  services  to  Lady  De  Vayne,  but  she 
would  not  leave  her  son,  in  whose  Avelfare  and  recovery 
her  whole  thoughts  were  absorbed. 

And  so,  gloomily  for  the  son  and  mother,  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  came  on,  and  St.  Werner's  was  deserted. 
Scarcely  even  a  stray  undergraduate  lingered  in  the 
courts,  and  the  chapel  was  closed;  no  sound  of  choirs 
or  organ  came  sweetly  across  the  lawns  at  morning 
or  evening;  the  ceaseless  melancholy  plash  of  the 
great  fountain  was  almost  the  only  sound  that  broke 
the  stillness.  Julian,  Lillyston,  and  Owen  had  all 
gone  down  for  the  holidays,  full  of  grief  at  the  thought 
of  leaving  their  friend  in  such  a  precarious  state,  but 
as  yet  not  permitted  to  see  or  serve  him.  Lady  De 
Vayne  promised  to  write  to  Julian  regular  accounts 
of  Arthur's  health,  and  told  him  how  often  her  son 
spoke  of  him  both  in  his  wanderings  and  in  his  clearer 
moments. 

It  was  touching  to  see  the  stately  and  beautiful 
lady  walking  alone  at  evening  about  the  deserted 
college,  to  gain  a  breath  of  the  keen  winter  air,  while 
her  son  had  sunk  for  a  few  moments  to  fitful  rest.  She 
was  pale  with  long  watchings  and  deep  anxiety,  and 
in  her  whole  countenance,  and  in  her  deep  and  often 
uplifted    eyes,   was    that    look   of    pray  erf  uln  ess   and 


292  THE    GROUNDS    OF    ST.  WERNERS. 

\\plj  communion  with  an  unseen  worlcl,  wLich  they 
acquire  whose  abode  has  long  been  in  the  house  of 
mourning,  and  removed  from  the  follies  and  frivolitiea 
of  life. 

Well-loved  grounds  of  St.  Werner's  by  the  quiet 
waves  of  the  sedgy  Iscam,  with  smooth  green  grass 
sloping  down  to  the  edge,  and  trim  quaint  gardens,  and 
long  avenues  of  chestnut  and  ancient  limes  !  Though 
winter  had  long  whirled  away  the  last  red  and  golden 
leaf,  there  was  pleasure  in  the  air  of  quiet  and  repose, 
which  is  always  to  be  found  in  those  memory-hal- 
lowed walks ;  and  while  Lady  De  Vayne  could  pace 
among  them  in  solitude,  she  needed  no  other  change, 
nor  any  rest  from  tliinking  over  her  sick  son. 

She  was  surprised  one  evening,  very  soon  after  the 
men  had  gone  down,  to  see  an  undergraduate  slowly 
approaching  her  down  the  long  and  silent  avenue.  He 
was  tall  and  well  made,  and  his  face  would  have  been 
a  pleasant  one,  but  for  the  deep  look  of  sadness  which 
clouded  it.  He  hesitated,  and  took  oif  his  cap  as  she 
came  near,  and,  returning  his  salute,  she  would  have 
passed  him,  but  he  stopped  her,  and  said, — 

"Lady  De  Vayne." 

Full  of  surprise,  she  looked  at  him,  and  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  he  continued:  "You  do  not 
know  my  name ;  if  I  tell  you,  I  fear  you  will  hate  me, 
becauiio  I  fear  you  will  have  heard  calumnies  about  me. 
But  may  I  speak  to  you?" 

"You  are  not  jNIr.  Bruce?"  she  said,  with  a  slight 
shudder, 

"No,  my  name  is  Edward  Kennedy.  Ah,  madam! 
do  not  look  at  me  so  reproachfully ;  I  cannot  endure  it, 


KENNEDY  AND  LADY  DR  VAYNE.       293 

Believe  me,  1  would  have  died — I  would,  indeed — 
rather  than  this  should  have  happened  to  Lord  De 
Vayne." 

"  Nay,  Mr.  Kennedy,  I  cannot  believe  that  you 
were  more  than  thoughtless.  I  have  very  often  heard 
Julian  Home  speak  of  you,  and  I  cannot  believe  that 
his  chosen  friend  could  be  so  vile  as  some  reports  would 
make  you." 

"  They  are  false  as  calumny  itself,"  he  said,  pas- 
sionately. "  Oh,  Lady  De  Vayne,  none  could  have 
honored  and  loved  your  son  more  than  I  did ;  I  cannot 
explain  to  you  the  long  story  of  my  exculpation,  but  I 
implore  you  to  believe  my  innocence." 

"  I  forgive  you,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  touched 
with  pity,  "if  there  be  anything  to  forgive;  and  so 
will  Arthur.  A  more  forgiving  spirit  than  his  never 
filled  any  one,  I  think.  Excuse  me,  it  is  time  for  me 
to  return  to  him." 

"  But  will  you  not  let  me  see  him,  and  help  you  in 
nursing  him  ?  It  was  for  this  purpose  alone  that  I 
stayed  here  when  all  the  others  went.  Let  me,  at 
least,  be  near  him,  that  I  may  feel  myself  to  be  making 
such  poor  reparation  as  my  heedlessness  requires." 

She  could  hardly  resist  his  earnest  entreaty,  and, 
besides,  she  was  won  by  compassion  for  his  evident 
distress. 

"You  may  come,  Mr.  Kennedy,  as  often  as  you  like : 
whenever  Arthur  is  capable  of  seeing  you,  you  shall 
visit  his  sick-room." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  she  perceive-d  the  trem- 
ble of  deep  emotion  in  his  voice. 

25* 


294  JEALOUSY — AWAKING. 

He  came  the  next  morning,  and  she  allowed  him 
to  see  De  Vayne.  He  entered  noiselessly,  and  gazed 
for  a  moment  as  he  stood  at  the  door,  on  the  pale 
wasted  face,  looking  still  paler  in  contrast  with  the 
lonfT  dark  hair  that  flowed  over  the  pillow.  He  was 
awake,  but  there  was  no  consciousness  in  his  dark 
dreamy  eyes. 

As  De  Vayne  murmured  to  himself  in  low  sen- 
tences, Kennedy  heard  repeatedly  the  name  of  Violet 
and  once  of  Violet  Home.  He  sat  still  as  death,  am^ 
soon  gathered  from  the  young  lord.'s  broken  words  his 
love,  his  deep  love  for  Julian's  sister. 

And  when  Kennedy  first  recognized  this  fact,  which 
had  hitherto  been  quite  unknown  to  him,  for  a  moment 
a  flood  of  jealousy  and  bitter  envy  filled  his  heart. 
What  if  Violet  should  give  up  her  troth  in  favoi  of  a 
wealthier,  perhaps  worthier  lover?  What  if  her  family 
should  think  his  own  poor  claims  no  barrier  to  the  hope 
that  Violet  should  one  day  wear  a  coronet?  The  image 
of  Julian  and  Violet  rose  up  in  his  fancy,  and  with  one 
more  pang  of  self-reproach,  he  grew  ashamed  of  his 
unworthy  suspicions. 

Yet  the  thought  that  De  Vayne,  too,  had  fixed  his 
afl"cctions  on  Violet  filled  him  with  uneasiness  and  fore- 
boding, and  he  determined,  on  some  future  occasion, 
to  save  pain  lO  all  parties,  by  getting  Julian  to  break 
10  De  Vayne  the  secret  of  his  sister's  betrothal. 

For  several  days  he  came  to  the  sick-room,  and  a 
\voman  could  hardly  have  been  more  thoughtful  and 
tender  than  he  was  to  his  friend.  It  was  on  about 
the  fourth  evening  that  De  Vayne  awoke  to  complete 
consciousness.     He  became  aware  that  some  one  besides 


AT  iLi»'nvN.  205 

his  mother  was  seated  in  the  room,  and  without  asking 
he  seemed  slowly  to  recognize  that  it  was  Kennedy. 

"  Is  that  Kennedy  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  weak  voice. 

"It  is  I,"  said  Kennedy;  but  the  patient  did  n(»t 
answer,  and  seemed  restless  and  uneasy,  and  complained 
of  cold. 

When  Kennedy  went,  De  Vayne  whispered  to  his 
mother:  "Mother,  I  am  very  weak  and  foolish,  but  it 
troubles  me  somehow  to  see  Kennedy  sitting  there ;  it 
shocks  my  nerves,  and  fills  me  with  images  of  some- 
thing dreadful  happening.  I  had  rather  not  see  him, 
mother,  till  I  am  well." 

"  Very  well,  Arthur.  Don't  talk  so  much,  love ; 
I  alone  will  nurse  you.  Soon  I  hope  you  will  be  able 
to  return  to  Uther." 

"And  leave  this  dreadful  place,"  he  said,  "for- 
ever." 

"  Hush,  my  boy  ;  try  to  sleep  again." 

He  soon  slept,  and  then  Lady  De  Vayne  wrote  to 
Kennedy  a  short  note,  in  which  she  explained  as  kindly 
and  considerately  as  she  could,  that  Arthur  was  not 
yet  strong  enough  to  allow  of  any  more  visits  to  his 
sick-room. 

"  He  shuns  me,"  thought  Kennedy,  with  a  sigh;  and 
packing  up  some  books  and  clothes,  he  prepared  to  go 
home. 

Of  course  he  was  to  spend  part  of  the  vacation  at 
lldown.  Violet  wondered  that  he  did  not  come  at 
on>3e ;  she  was  not  exactly  jealous  of  him,  but  she 
thought  that  be  might  have  been  more  eager  for  her 
company  than  he  seemed  to  be,  and  she  would  have 
liked  it  better  had  he  come  earlier.     Poor  Kennedy! 


296  BEAUTIFUL    AS    A    DREAM. 

his  very  self-denials  turned  against  him ;  for  the  solfl 

reason  -why  he  kept  away  from  Ildown  was,  that  he  | 

feared  to  disturb  the  freedom  of  Frank  and  Cyril  by  1 

the  presence  of  a  stranger  all  the  time  of  their  holidays, 

and  he  hesitated  to  intrude  on  the  united  happiness 

which  always  characterized  the  Ildown  circle. 

Eva,  too,  was  invited,  and  the  brother  and  sister 
arrived  at  Ildown  by  a  late  train,  and  drove  to  the 
house.  What  a  glowing  welcome  they  received  !  Julian 
introduced  them  to  Mrs.  Home,  and  Kennedy  kissed 
affectionately  the  hand  of  his  future  mother.  Frank 
and  Cyril  had  gone  to  bed,  but  Frank  was  so  determined 
to  see  Violet's  lover  that  night,  that  he  made  Julian 
brino-  him  into  their  bedroom,  and  he  was  more  than 
satisfied  with  the  first  glimpse. 

"And  where  is  Violet  ?"  asked  Kennedy,  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone,  for  he  Avell  knew  that  she  would  not  choose 
to  meet  him  in  the  presence  of  others. 

"In  her  own  little  room,"  said  Julian,  smiling;  "1 
will  show  you  the  way."  He  led  Kennedy  up  stairs, 
and  left  him  at  the  door;  he  well  knew  that  her  heart 
would  be  fluttering  as  much  as  his. 

A  light  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  moment  after  they 
saw  each  other  again. 

She  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  the  firelight  flickered  on 
the  amethyst — his  gift — which  she  wore  on  her  white 
neck ;  and  her  bright  eyes  danced  with  tears  and 
laughter,  and  her  bosom  heaved  and  fell  as  he  clasped 
her  to  his  breast,  and  printed  a  long,  long  kiss  upon 
her  cheek. 

In  silence,  more  exquisite  than  speech,  they  gazed 
on  each  other;  and  as  though  her  beauty  were  reflected 


EVENINGS    AT    HOME,  297 

on  his  own  face,  all  trace  of  sorrow  and  shame  fled 
like  a  cloud  from  his  forehead  ;  and  who  would  not  have 
said,  looking  upon  the  pair,  that  he  was  worthy  of  her. 
as  she  of  him  ? 

"My  own  Violet,"  he  said,  "you  are  beautiful  as  a 
vision  to-night !" 

"  Hush,  flatterer !"  and  she  placed  her  little  hand  upon 
his  mouth  :  no  wonder  that  he  seized  and  kissed  it, 

"And  what  a  thriee-charming  dress  I" 

"Ah,  I  meant  you  to  admire  it,"  she  said,  laughing. 

"  'And  thinking,  "this  will  please  Mm  best," 
She  takes  a  ribbon  or  a  rose,'  " 

he  whispered  to  her, 

"Come,"  she  replied,  "no  ill-omened  words,  Edward. 
You  know  the  sad  context  of  those  lines," 

"  No !  no  sadness  to-night,  my  own  Violet,  my 
beautiful,  beautiful  Violet ;  you  quite  dazzle  me,  my 
child,  I  really  can't  sit  by  your  side ;  come,  let  me 
sit  on  your  footstool  here,  and  look  up  in  your  face." 

"  Silly  boy  !"  she  said  ;  "  come  along,  we  shall  keep 
them  all  waiting  for  supper." 

While  poor  De  Vayne  languished  on  the  bed  of  sick- 
ness, his  sufferings  were  almost  the  only  shadow  which 
checkered  the  brightness  of  these  weeks  at  Ildown. 
In  the  morning,  Julian  and  Kennedy  worked  steadily ; 
the  afternoon  and  evening  they  devoted  to  amusement 
and  social  life.  The  Kennedys  soon  became  great 
favorites  among  the  Ildown  people,  and  went  out  to 
many  cheery  Christmas  parties;  but  they  enjoyed 
more  the  quiet  evenings  at  home  when  they  all  sat 
and  talked  after  dinner  round  the  dining-room  fire: 


298  KENNEDY    AND    VIOLET. 

and  while  the  two  boys  played  at  chess,  and  Violet  anJ 
Eva  worked  or  sketched,  Julian  and  Kennedy  would 
read  aloud  to  them  in  turns.  How  often  those  evenings 
recurred  to  ail  their  memories  in  future  days ! 

Soon  after  the  Kennedys  had  come,  Julian  received 
from  Camford  the  Christmas  college-list.  He  had 
again  won  a  first  class,  but  Kennedy's  name,  much  to 
his  vexation,  appeared  only  in  the  third. 

"How  is  it  that  Edward  is  only  in  the  third  class  ?" 
asked  Violet  of  Julian — for,  of  course,  she  had  seen 
the  list.     "  He  is  very  clever — is  he  not?" 

"Very;  one  of  the  cleverest  fellows  in  St.  Werner's." 

"Then  is  he  idle?" 

"I'm  afraid  so,  Vi.;  you  must  get  him  to  work 
more." 

So  when  he  was  seated  by  her  on  the  sofa  in  her 
little  boudoir,  she  said :  "  You  must  work  more,  Edward, 
at  Camford,  to  please  me." 

"Ah,  do  not  talk  to  me  of  Camford,"  he  said,  with 
a  heavy  .sigh.  "  Let  me  enjoy  unbroken  happiness  for 
a  time,  and  leave  the  bitter  future  to  itself." 

"  Bitter,  Edward  ?  but  why  bitter  ?  Julian  always 
seems  to  me  so  happy  at  Camford." 

"  Yes,  Julian  is,  and  so  are  all  who  deserve  to  be." 

"  Then  you  must  be  happy  too,  Edward." 

His  only  answer  was  a  sigh.  "  Ah,  Violet,  pray 
talk  to  me  of  anything  but  Camford." 

The  visit  came  to  an  end,  as  all  things,  whether 
happy  or  unhappy,  must ;  and  Julian  rejoiced  that  con- 
fidence seemed  restored  between  him  and  Kennedy  once 
more.  Of  course,  he  told  Violet  none  of  the  follies 
which  had  cost  poor  Kennedy  the  loss  both  of  popularity 


AT    SUNSET,  299 

and  self-respect.  Soon  afterwards  Lord  I)e  Vayne  was 
brought  back  to  Uther  Hall,  and  Violet  and  Julian 
were  invited,  with  their  mother,  to  .stay  there  till  the 
Camford  term  commenced.  The  boys  had  returned  to 
school,  so  that  they  all  acceded  to  Lady  De  Vayne's 
earnest  request  that  they  would  come. 

It  was  astonishing  how  rapidly  the  young  viscount 
recovered  when  once  Violet  had  come  to  Uther  Hall. 
Her  presence  seemed  to  fill  him  with  fresh  life,  and  he 
soon  began  to  get  down  stairs,  and  even  to  venture  on 
a  short  walk  in  the  park.  His  constitution  had  suffered 
a  serious  and  permanent  injury,  but  he  was  pronounced 
convalescent  before  the  Homes  finished  their  visit. 

The  last  evening  before  their  departure,  he  was 
seated  with  Violet  on  a  rustic  seat  on  the  terrace,  look- 
ing at  the  sun  as  it  set  behind  the  distant  elms  of  the 
park,  and  at  the  deer  as  they  grazed  in  lovely  groups 
on  the  rich  undulating  slopes  that  swept  down  from  the 
slight  eminence  on  which  his  house  was  built.  He  felt 
that  the  time  had  come  to  speak  his  love. 

"Violet,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  earnestly  at  her,  and 
took  her  hand,  "you  have,  doubtless,  seen  that  I  love 
you.  Can  you  ever  return  my  love  ?  I  am  ready  to 
live  and  die  for  you,  and  to  give  you  my  whole  affec- 
tion." His  voice  was  still  low  and  weak  through  illness, 
and  he  could  hardly  speak  the  sentences  which  were  to 
win  for  him  a  decision  of  his  fate. 

Violet  was  taken  by  surprise ;  she  had  known  Lord 
De  Vayne  so  long  and  so  intimately,  and  their  stations 
were  so  different,  that  the  thought  of  his  loving  her  had 
never  entered  her  head.  She  regarded  him  familiarly 
as  her  brother's  friend. 


300  DARKNESS. 

"Dear  De  Vayne,  "  she  said,  "I  shall  always  love 
you  as  a  friend,  as  a  brother.  But  did  you  not  know 
that  I  have  been  for  some  months  engaged  ?" 

"Engaged?"  he  said,  turning  very  pale. 

"  I  am  betrothed,"  she  answered,  "to  Edward  Ken- 
nedy. Nay,  Arthur,  dear  Arthur,"  she  continued,  as 
he  nearly  fainted  at  her  feet,  "  you  must  not  suffer  this 
disappointment  to  overcome  you.  Love  me  still  as  a 
sister ;  regard  me  as  though  I  were  married  already, 
and  let  us  enjoy  a  happy  friendship  for  many  years." 

He  was  too  weak  to  bear  up,  too  weak  to  talk ;  only 
the  tears  coursed  each  other  fast  down  his  cheeks,  as 
he  murmured,  "  Oh,  forgive  me,  forgive  me,  Violet." 

"Forgive  you,"  she  said  kindly;  "nay,  you  honor 
me  too  much.  Marry  one  of  your  ow^n  high  rank,  and 
not  the  orphan  of  a  poor  clergyman.  I  am  sure  you 
will  not  yield  to  this  sorrow,  and  suffer  it  to  make  you 
ill.  Bear  up,  Arthur,  for  your  mother's  sake — for  my 
sake  ;  and  let  us  be  as  if  these  words  had  never  passed 
between  us  " 

She  lent  him  her  arm  as  he  walked  fiiintlj'  to  his 
room,  and,  as  he  turned  round  and  stooped  to  kiss  her 
hand,  she  felt  it  wet  with  many  tears. 

They  went  home  next  day,  and  soon  after  received 
a  note  from  Lady  De  Vayne  informing  them  that  Ar- 
thur was  worse,  and  that  they  intended  removing  for 
some  time  to  a  seat  of  his  in  Scotland ;  after  which 
they  meant  to  travel  on  the  continent  for  another 
year,  if  his  health  permitted  it.  "  But  "  she  said,  "  I 
fear  he  has  had  a  relapse,  and  his  state  is  very  pre- 
carious. Dear  friends,  think  of  us  sometimes,  and  let 
us  hope  to  meet  again  in  happier  days.' 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

MEMORY     THE    BOOK     OF    GOD. 

"  At  Trompyngtoun,  nat  fer  fra  Cantebrigge, 
Ther  golh  a  brook,  and  over  that  a  brigge, 
Upon  the  whiche  brook  then  stunt  a  melle ; 
And  this  ^s  verray  sothe  that  I  you  telle." 

Chaucer.     Tlie  Reeve's  Tale. 

TuERE  is  little  which  admits  of  external  record  in 
Julian's  life  at  this  period  of  his  university  career.  It 
was  the  usual  uneventful,  quiet  life  of  a  studious  Cam- 
ford  undergraduate.  Happy  it  was  beyond  any  other 
time,  except,  perhaps,  a  few  vernal  days  of  boyhood ; 
but  it  was  unmarked  by  any  incidents.  He  read,  and 
rowed,  and  went  to  lectures,  and  worked  at  classics, 
mathematics,  and  philosophy,  and  dropped  in  some- 
times to  a  debate  or  a  private  business  squabble  at  the 
Union,  and  played  rackets,  fives,  and  football,  and 
talked  eagerly  in  hall  and  men's  rooms  over  the  ex- 
citing topics  of  the  day,  and  occasionally  went  to  wine 
or  to  breakfast  with  a  don,  and  (absorbed  in  some 
grand  old  poet  or  historian)  lingered  by  his  lamp  over 
the  lettered  page  from  chapel  time  till  the  gray  dawn, 
when  he  would  retire  to  pure  and  refreshful  sleep, 
humming  a  tune  out  of  very  cheerfulness. 

Happy  days,  happy  friendships,  happy  study,  happy 
recreation,  happy  exemption   from  the  cares  of  life ' 

26  (301) 


i02  CAMFORD    LIFE. 

The  bright  visions  of  a  scholar,  the  bright  hilarity  of  a 
youth,  the  bright  acquaintanceship  with  many  united 
by  a  brotherly  bond  within  those  graj-  walls,  were  so 
many  mingled  influences  that  ran  together  "  like  warp 
and  woof"  in  the  web  of  a  singularly  enviable  life. 
And  every  day  he  felt  that  he  was  knowing  more,  and 
acquiring  a  strength  and  power  which  should  fit  him 
hereafter  for  the  more  toilsome  business  and  sterner 
struggles  of  common  life.  Well  may  old  Cowley  ex- 
claim,— 

"  0  pulerae  sine  luxes  cedes,  vitoeque  decore 
Splendida  paupertas  ingenuusque  pudor  !" 

All  the  reading  men  of  his  year  were  now  anxiously 
occupied  in  working  for  the  St.  Werner's  scholarships. 
They  were  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  place.  In  value  they 
were  not  much  more  than  j650  a  year,  but  as  the  schol- 
ars had  an  honorable  distinctive  seat  both  in  hail  and 
chapel,  and  as  from  their  ranks  alone  the  fellows  were 
selected,  all  the  most  intelligent  and  earnest  men  used 
their  best  efforts  to  obtain  them  on  the  earliest  possible 
occasion.  At  the  scholars'  table  v/ere  generally  to  be 
found  the  most  distinguished  among  the  alumni  of  St. 
Werner's. 

Julian  still  moved  chiefly  among  his  old  friends, 
although  he  had  a  large  acquaintance,  and  by  no  means 
confined  himself  to  the  society  of  particular  classes. 
But  De  Vayne's  illness  made  a  sad  gap  in  the  circle 
of  his  most  intimate  associates,  and  he  was  not  yet 
sufficiently  recovered  to  attempt  a  correspondence. 
Among  the  dons,  Julian  began  to  like  Mr.  Admer 
more  and  more,  and  found  that  his  cynicism  of  manner 


"  PEREUNT    ET    IMPUTANTUR."  808 

was  but  the  result  of  disappointed  ambition  and  un- 
steady aims,  while  his  heart  was  sound  and  right, 

Kennedy,  as  well  as  Julian,  had  alwnys  hoped  tc 
gain  a  scholarship  at  his  first  trial ;  but  now,  with  only 
one  term  left  him  to  read  in,  his  chance  seemed  to  fade 
away  to  nothing.  Poor  fellow,  he  had  returned  with 
the  strongest  possible  intention  of  working,  and  of 
abandoning  at  once  and  forever  all  objectionable  ac- 
quaintances and  all  dangerous  ways.  Hourly  the  sweet 
face  of  Violet  looked  in  upon  his  silent  thoughts,  and 
filled  him  with  shame  as  he  thought  of  lost  opportuni- 
ties and  wasted  hours. 

"Kennedy,"  said  Mr.  Admer,  "how  cun  you  be  so 
intolerably  idle  ?  I  saw  some  or  your  Christmas  papers, 
and  they  were  wholly  unworthy  of  your  abilties." 

"  I  know  it  well.  But  what  could  you  expect  ? 
The  Pinclar  I  had  read  once  over  witli  a  crib  ;  the 
morality  I  had  not  looked  at ;  the  mathematics  I  did 
not  touch." 

"But  what  excuse  have  you?  I  really  feel  quite 
angry  with  you.  You  are  wholly  throwing  away  every- 
thing. What  have  you  to  show  for  your  time  and 
money  ?  Only  think,  my  dear  fellow,  that  an  opportu- 
nity like  this  comes  only  once  in  life,  and  soon  your 
college  days  will  be  over,  with  nothing  to  remember." 

"  True,  too  true.  " 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  that  you  see  and  own  it.  I  began 
to  fear  that  you  were  one  of  that  contemptible  would- 
be  fine  gentleman  class  that  affects  forsooth  to  despise 
work  as  a  thing  unworthy  of  their  eminence." 

"No,  Mr.  Admer,"  said  Kennedy,  "my  idleness 
springs  from  very  different  causes." 


304  "  VIDEO    MELIORA." 

"  And  then  these  Brogtens  and  people,  whom  30U 
are  so  often  seen  with  ;  which  of  them  do  you  think 
understands  you,  or  can  teach  you  anything  worth 
knowing  ?  and  Avhich  of  them  do  you  think  you  Avill 
ever  care  to  look  back  to  as  acquaintances  in  after- 
days  ?" 

"Not  one  of  them.     I  hate  the  whole  set." 

"And  then,  my  dear  Kennedy — for  I  speak  to  you 
out  of  real  good-will — I  would  say  it  with  the  utmost 
delicacy,  but  you  must  know  that  your  name  has  suf- 
fered from  the  company  you  frequent." 

"  Can  I  not  see  it  to  be  so  ?"  he  answered,  moodily; 
"no  need  to  tell  me  that,  when  I  read  it  in  the  faces 
of  nearly  every  man  I  see.  The  men  have  not  yet 
foi given  me  De  Vayne's  absence,  though  really  and 
truly  that  sin  does  not  lie  at  my  door.  Except  Julian 
and  Lillyston  there  is  hardly  a  man  I  respect,  who  does 
not  look  at  me  with  averted  eyes.  Of  course  Grayson 
and  the  dons  detest  me  to  a  man;  but  I  don't  care  for 
them." 

"  Then,  you  mysterious  fellow,  seeing  all  this  so 
clearly,  why  do  you  suffer  it  to  be  so?" 

Kennedy  only  shook  his  head ;  already  there  had 
begun  to  creep  over  him  a  feeling  of  despair ;  already 
it  seemed  to  him  as  though  the  gate  of  heaven  were  a 
lion-haunted  portal,  guarded  by  a  fiery  sword. 

For  he  had  soon  found  that  his  intense  resolutions  to 
do  right  met  with  formidable  checks.  There  are  two 
stern  facts — facts  which  it  does  us  all  good  to  remember 
— which  generally  lie  in  the  path  of  repentance,  and 
look  like  crouching  110ns  to  the  remorseful  soul.  First, 
the   fact  that  we   become  so   entangled  by  habit  and 


*'as  a  man  soweth."  80rj 

circurnstai.se,  so  enslaved  by  association  and  custom, 
that  the  very  atmosphere  around  us  seems  to  have 
become  impregnated  with  a  poison  which  we  cannot 
cease  to  breathe ;  secondly,  the  fact  that  "  in  the 
physical  world  there  is  7io  forgiveness  of  sins;"  tu 
abandon  our  evil  courses  is  not  to  escape  the  punish 
ment  of  them,  and  although  we  may  have  relinquished 
them  wholly  in  the  present,  we  cannot  escape  the  con- 
sequences of  the  past.  Remission  of  sin  is  not  thf 
remission  of  their  results.  The  very  monsters  we 
dread,  and  the  dread  of  which  terrifies  us  into  the 
consideration  of  our  ways,  glare  upon  us  out  of  the 
future  darkness,  as  large,  as  terrible,  as  irresistible 
whether  Ave  approach  them  on- the  road  to  ruin,  oi 
whether  we  seem  to  fly  from  them  through  the  hardly 
attained  and  narrow  wicket  of  genuine  repentance. 

Both  these  difficulties  acted  with  their  full  force  on 
the  mind  of  Kennedy.  His  error  was  its  own  punish- 
ment, and  its  heaviest  punishment.  The  hours  he  had 
lost  were  lost  so  utterly,  that  he  could  never  hope 
to  recover  them  ;  the  undesirable  acquaintances  he  had 
formed  were  so  far  ripe  as  to  render  it  no  light  task  to 
abandon  them ;  and,  above  all,  the  fleck  on  his  character, 
the  connection  of  his  name  with  the  outrage  on  Do 
Vayne,  had  injured  his  reputation  in  a  manner  which  he 
never  hoped,  by  future  endeavors,  to  obviate  or  remove. 

For  instance,  there  was  at  once  an  objection  to  his 
dropping  the  society  of  the  set  to  which  Bruce  and 
Brogten  had  introduced  him.  He  owed  them  money, 
which  at  present  he  could  not  pay ;  his  undischarged 
"  debts  of  honor"  hung  like  a  millstone  round  his  neck 

26* 


'HOG  SINNING    TO 

To  pay  these  seemed  a  necessary  preliminary  even  to 
the  possibility  of  commencing  a  new  career. 

But  how  to  get  the  money?  ah  me  !  new  temptationa 
seemed  springing  up  around  like  the  crop  of  armed  men 
from  the  furrows  sown  with  the  dragon's  teeth. 

There  was  but  one  way  which  suggested  it>>elf  to 
his  mind,  by  which  he  would  be  able  at  once  to  deliver 
himself  in  part  by  meeting  the  most  exigent  demands. 
Let  me  hurry  over  the  struggle  -which  it  cost  him,  but 
finally  he  adopted  it.     It  was  this. 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  most  liberal  in  allowing  his  son 
everything  which  could  possibly  further  his  university 
studies,  and  the  most  important  item  in  his  quarterly 
expenses  was  the  charge  for  private  tuition.  This  sum 
was  always  paid  by  Kennedy  himself,  and  it  amounted 
at  least  to  seven  pounds  a  term.  Now,  what  if  he 
should  not  only  ask  his  father  to  allow  him  this  term  a 
classical  and  a  mathematical  tutor,  but  also  request  per- 
mission to  read  double  with  them  both ;  i.e.  to  go  for 
an  hour  ever^  day  instead  of  every  other  day  ?  This 
would  at  once  procure  him  from  his  father  the  sum  of 
twenty-eight  pounds,  and  by  means  of  this  he  could, 
with  great  economy,  clear  off  all  the  most  pressing  of 
those  pecuniary  obligations  which  bound  him  to  com- 
pany which  he  longed  to  shun,  and  exposed  him  to 
dangers  which  he  had  learnt  to  fear.  Of  course  he 
would  be  obliged  to  forego  all  assistance  from  private 
tutors,  and  simply  to  appropriate  the  money,  without 
nis  father's  knowledge,  to  other  ends.  In  a  high  point 
of  view,  it  was  simple  embezzlement ;  it  was  little  better 
than  a  form  of  swindling.  But  in  this  gross  and  repul- 
sive shape,  it  never  suggested  itself  to  poor  Kennedy's 


ESCAPE    TEMPTATION.  307 

Imagination.  Somehow  one's  own  sins  never  look  so 
bad  in  our  eyes  as  the  same  sins  when  committed  by 
another.  He  argued  that  he  would  really  be  applying 
the  money  as  his  father  intended,  viz.,  to  such  purposes 
as  should  most  advance  the  object  of  his  university 
career.  He  was  committing  a  sin  to  save  himself  from 
temptation. 

The  near  approach  of  the  scholarship  examination, 
and  Kennedy's  failure  at  Christmas,  made  his  father  all 
the  more  ready  to  give  him  every  possible  advantage 
that  money  could  procure.  Ignorant  of  the  fact  that  to 
"  read  double"  with  a  tutor  was  almost  a  thing  unpre- 
cedented at  Camford,  and  that  to  do  so,  both  in  classics 
and  mathematics,  was  a  thing  wholly  unknown,  and 
indeed  practically  impossible,  Mr.  Kennedy  was  only 
delighted  at  Edward's  letter,  as  conveying  a  proof  of 
his  extreme  and  laudable  eagerness  to  recover  lost 
ground,  and  do  his  best.  He  very  readily  wrote  the 
check  for  the  sum  required,  and  praised  his  son  liberally 
for  these  indications  of  elfort.  How  those  praises  cut 
Kennedy  to  the  heart ! 

But  he  at  once  spent  the  money  in  the  way  which 
he  had  devised,  and  added  thereby  a  new  load  of  mental 
bitterness  to  the  heavy  weight  which  already  oppressed 
him.  The  sum  thus  appropriated  greatly  lightened, 
although  it  did  not  remove,  the  pecuniary  obligations 
which  he  had  contracted  at  cards  or  in  other  ways  to 
his  set  of  "fast"  companions  ;  but  it  was  at  the  cost  of 
his  peace  of  mind. 

Externally  he  profited  by  the  trauoaction.  He  was 
enabled  in  great  measure,  without  the  charge  of  mean- 
ness, to  drop  the  mcit  undesirable  of  his  acquaintances  • 


308  TWO    LIVES    IN    ONE. 

and  awaking  eagerly  :o  the  hope  of  at  once  ledeeming 
his  reputation  and  lessening  his  difficulties  by  gaining 
a  scholarship,  he  beg;in,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
entered  St.  "Werner's,  to  work  steadily  with  all  his 
might. 

He  seemed  to  be  living  two  lives  in  one,  and  often 
asked  himself  whether  there  was  in  his  character  some 
deeply-rooted  hypocrisy.  With  Julian  and  Owen,  and 
the  men  who  resembled  them,  he  could  talk  nobly  of  all 
that  was  honorable,  and  he  powerfully  upheld  a  chival- 
rous ideal  of  duty  and  virtue.  And  as  his  face  lighted 
up,  and  the  thoughts  flowed  in  the  full  stream  of  eloquent 
language  in  reprobation  of  some  mean  act,  or  in  glow- 
ing eulogium  of  some  recorded  heroism  for  the  perform- 
ance of  what  was  right,  who  would  have  f;incied,  who 
would  have  believed,  that  Kennedy's  own  life  had  failed 
so  egregiously  in  the  commonest  requirements  of  stead- 
fastness and  honesty  ? 

None  rejoiced  more  in  the  outward  change  of  life 
than  Julian  Home ;  for  Violet's  sake  now,  as  well  as 
for  Kennedy's,  he  felt  a  keen  and  brotherly  interest  in 
the  progress  and  estimation  of  his  friend.  Once  more 
they  were  to  be  found  together  as  often  as  they  had 
been  in  their  freshman's  year,  and  it  was  Julian's 
countenance  and  affection  that  tended  more  than  any- 
thing else  to  repair  Kennedy's  damnged  popularity, 
and  remove  the  tarnish  attaching  to  his  name. 

One  evening  they  were  taking  the  usual  two-hours' 
constitutional — which  is  often  the  poor  substitute  for 
exercise  in  the  case  of  reading  men — and  discussing 
♦■.ogether  the  chances  of  the  coming  scholarship  exami- 
nation, when  they  found  themselves  near  a  place  called 


THE    MILLDAM.  80i 

Gower's  Mill,  and  lieard  a  sudden  cry  for  help.  Press- 
ing forward  they  saw  a  boat  floating  upside  down,  and 
whirling  about  tumultuously  in  the  racing  and  rain- 
swollen  eddies  of  the  milldam.  A  floating  straw  hal 
was  already  being  sucked  in  jy  the  gurgling  rush  of 
water  that  roared  under  the  mighty  circumference  of 
the  wheel,  and  for  a  moment  they  saw  nothing  more. 
But  as  they  ran  up,  a  black  spot  emerged  from  the 
stream,  only  a  few  yards  from  the  mill,  and  they  saw 
a  man,  evidently  in  the  last  stage  of  exhaustion,  strug- 
gling feebly  in  the  white  and  boiling  waves. 

The  position  was  agonizing.  The  man's  utmost 
efibrts  only  served  to  keep  him  stationary,  and  it  was 
clear,  from  the  frantic  violence  of  his  exertion,  that 
he  could  not  last  an  instant  longer.  Indeed,  as  they 
reached  the  bank,  he  began  to  sink  and  disappear — 
disappear  as  it  seemed  to  the  certainty  of  a  most  horrid 
death. 

In  one  instant — without  considering  the  danger  and 
apparent  hopelessness  of  the  attempt,  without  looking 
at  the  wild  force  of  the  water,  and  the  grinding  roll  of 
the  big  wheel,  without  even  waiting  to  fling  ofi"  their 
coats — Julian  and  Kennedy,  actuated  by  the  strong 
instinct  to  save  a  fellow-creature's  life,  had  both  plunged 
into  the  milldam,  and  at  the  same  moment  struck  out 
for  the  sinking  figure.  It  was  not  till  then  that  they 
felt  their  terrific  danger ;  in  the  swirl  of  those  spumy 
and  hissing  waves  it  was  all  but  impossible  for  them  to 
make  head  against  the  current,  and  they  felt  it  carry 
them  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  black,  dripping  mass, 
one  blow  of  which  would  stun  them,  and  one  revolution 
of  it   mangle   them    with   horrible   mutilation.      T^hej 


jlO       FOR    DEAR    LIFE— -'UK    IS    MINE    ENEMY. 

reached  the  drowning  wretch,  and  each  seizing  him  bj 
the  arm,  shouted  for  assistance,  and  buffeted  galhmtly 
with  the  headstrong  stream.  The  senseless  burden 
which  they  supported  clogged  their  efforts,  and  as  they 
felt  themselves  gradually  SAvept  nearer,  nearer,  nearer 
to  destruction,  the  passionate  desire  of  self-preserva- 
tion woke  in  both  of  them  in  all  its  wild  agony;  yet 
they  would  not  attempt  to  preserve  themselves  by  let- 
ting go  the  man  to  save  whose  life  they  had  so  terribly 
endangered  their  own. 

Meanwhile  their  repeated  shouts  and  those  of  the 
swimmer,  which  had  first  attracted  their  own  attention, 
had  aroused  the  miller,  who  instantly,  on  hearing  them, 
rnn  doAvn  Avith  a  rope  to  the  water's  side.  He  threw 
it  skillfully:  Avith  a  Avild  clutch  Kennedy  caught  it,  and 
in  another  moment,  as  from  the  very  jaAvs  of  death, 
Avhen  they  were  almost  touching  the  fatal  Avheel,  they 
were  draAvn  to  shore,  still  carrying,  or  rather  dragging, 
with  them  their  insensible  companion. 

After  Avords  of  hurried  thanks  to  the  miller  for  saving 
their  lives,  they  began  to  turn  their  Avhole  attention  to 
the  half-drowned  man,  and  to  apply  the  Avell-known 
remedies  for  restoring  extinct  animation. 

"  Good  heavens  !"  said  Julian,  "  it  is  Brogten!" 

"  Brogten  ?"  said  Kennedy  ;  he  looked  on  the  face, 
and  whispered  half  aloud,  "  thank  God  !" 

They  carried  him  into  the  mill,  put  him  between 
the  blankets  in  a  warm  bed,  chafed  his  numb  limbs, 
and  sent  off  for  the  nearest  doctor.  Very  soon  he 
began  to  revive,  and  recovered  his  consciousness ;  im- 
mediately this  was  the  case,  Julian  and  Kennedy  ran 


COALS    OF    FIRR.  31J 

home  as   quickly  as   they  could   to   change   their  wet 
clothes. 

The  next  day  the  doctor  ordered  Brogtcn  to  lie  in 
bed  till  after  mid-day,  and  then  allowed  him,  now 
thoroughly  well  and  rested,  to  walk  home  to  St.  Wer- 
ner's. He  had  not  yet  learnt  the  names  of  his  deliv- 
erers. 

He  reached  the  college  in  the  evening,  and  after 
changing  his  boating  dress,  his  first  care  w:is  to  try  and 
learn  to  v/hom  he  was  indebted  for  his  life.  Almost 
the  first  man  he  met  told  him  that  the  men  who  had 
risked  their  safety  for  his  were  Home  and  Kennedy. 

Home  and  Kennedy !  Home,  to  Avhom  he  had 
caused  the  bitterest  disappointment  and  done  the  most 
malicious  injury  which  had  ever  happened  to  him  in  hia 
life  ;  Kennedy,  whom  he  had  tried  but  too  successfully 
to  corrupt  and  ruin,  tempt  from  duty,  and  push  from 
his  good  name  ' 

Deeply,  very  deeply  was  Brogten  humiliated ;  he 
felt  that  his  enemies  had  indeed  heaped  coals  of  fire 
upon  his  head. 

He  determined,  as  his  first  duty,  to  go  and  thank 
them  both — Kennedy  first,  as  the  one  against  whom  he 
had  most  willfully  sinned. 

He  found  Kennedy  sitting  down  to  tea,  and  Julian, 
Owen,  and  Suton  were  with  him. 

"Kennedy,"  he  said,  "I  have  come  to  thank  you 
and  Home  for  a  very  gallant  deed ;  I  need  not  say 
how  much  I  feel  indebted  to  you  for  the  risk  you  ran 
tn  saving  my  life." 

Genuine  tears  rushed  into  his  dark  eyes  as  he  spoke, 
Bnd  cordially  grasped  the  hands  which,  without  a  word, 


3]  2  CAMFORD    CONVERSATIONS 

thev  proffered.  Community  of  danger,  consciousnesi: 
of  obligation,  blotted  out  all  evil  memories ;  and  U 
have  stood  side  by  side  together  on  the  very  brink  of 
the  precipice  of  death  was  a  bond  of  union  which  could 
not  be  ignored  or  set  aside.  That  night,  in  spite  cf 
bygones,  the  feeling  of  those  three  young  men  for  each 
other  v/as  of  the  kindliest  cast. 

"  Won't  you  stay  to  tea,  Brogten  ?"  said  Kennedy. 

He  looked  round,  as  though  uncertain  whether  the 
others  would  like  his  company,  but  as  they  all  seconded 
Kennedy's  request,  he  gladly  stayed.  It  was  the  first 
evening  that  he  had  regularly  spent  in  the  society  of 
reading  men,  and  he  was  both  delighted  and  surprised 
at  the  rare  pleasure  he  received  from  the  vigor  and 
liveliness  of  their  conversation.  These  were  the  men 
whom  he  had  despised  as  slow  ;  yet  what  a  contrast  be- 
tween their  way  of  talking  and  the  inanities  of  Fitzurse 
or  the  shallow  flippancy  of  Bruce  !  As  he  sat  there 
and  listened,  his  very  face  became  softer  in  its  lines 
from  the  expression  of  a  real  and  intelligent  interest, 
and  they  all  thought  that  he  was  a  better  fellow,  on 
iloser  acquaintance,  than  they  had  been  accustomed  to 
suppose.  Ah  me  !  how  often  one  remains  unaware  of 
the  good  side  of  those  whom  we  dislike. 

Oh  those  Camford  conversations — how  impetuous, 
how  interesting,  how  thoroughly  hearty  and  unccn- 
ventional  they  were  !  How  utterly  presumption  and 
ignorance  were  scouted  in  them,  and  how  completely 
they  were  free  from  the  least  shadow  of  insincerity  or 
ennui !  If  I  could  but  transfer  to  my  page  a  true  and 
vivid  picture  of  one  such  evening,  spent  in  the  society 
of  St,  Werner's  friends — if  I  could  write  down  but  one 


CONSECRATED    TO    FIVE    FRIENDS.  813 

Buch  conversation,  and  at  all  express  its  vivacity,  its 
quick  flashes  of  thought  and  logic,  its  real  desire  for 
truth  and  knowledge,  its  friendly  fearlessness,  its 
felicitous  illustrations,  its  unpremeditated  wit,  such  a 
record,  taken  fresh  from  the  life,  would  be  worth  all 
that  I  shall  ever  write.  But  youth  flies,  and  as  she 
flies  all  the  bright  colors  fade  from  the  wings  of  thought, 
and  the  bloom  vanishes  froin  the  earnest  eloquence  of 
speech. 

Yet,  as  1  write,  let  me  call  to  mind,  if  but  for  a 
moment,  the  remembrance  of  those  happy  evenings, 
when  we  would  meet  to  read  Shakspeare  or  the  poets 
in  each  other's  rooms,  and  pleasant  sympathies  and 
pleasant  diff'erences  of  opinion  freely  discussed,  called 
into  genial  life  friendships  which  we  once  hoped  and 
believed  would  never  have  grown  cold.  Let  the  image 
of  that  bright  social  circle,  picturesquely  scattered  in 
arm-chairs  round  the  winter  fire,  rise  up  before  my 
fancy  once  more,  and  let  me  recall  wdaat  can  never  be 
again.  Of  the  honored  and  well  loved  few  who  one 
night  recorded  their  names  and  thoughts  in  one  pre- 
cious little  book,  two  are  dead,  though  it  is  but  five 
years  back  ;  C.  E.  B.  is  dead,  and  R.  H.  P.  is  dead. 
C.  E.  B,,  the  chivalrous  and  gallant  hearted,  the  cham- 
pion of  the  past,  the  "  Tory  whom  Liberals  loved;"  and 
R.  H.  P.,  the  honest  and  noble,  the  eloquent  speaker, 
and  the  brave  actor,  and  the  fearless  thinker — he,  too, 
is  dead,  nobly  volunteering  in  works  of  danger  and 
difficulty  during  the  Indian  mutiny ;  but  L.,  and  B. 
and  M.,  and  others  are  living  yet,  and  to  them  I  con- 
secrate this  page ;  they  ^n\\  forgive  the  digression,  and 
for  their  sakes  I  will  venture  to  let  it  pass.     We  are 

27 


314  ASSOCIATION    OF    IDEAS. 

scattered  now,  and  our  friendship  is  a  silent  ono,  but 
yet  I  know  that  to  them,  at  least,  changed  or  un- 
changed, my  words  will  recall  the  fading  memory  of 
glorious  days, 

The  conversation — but  do  not  suppose  that  I  shall 
attempt,  after  what  I  have  said,  to  reproduce  it — hap- 
pened to  turn  that  evening  on  the  phenomena  of 
memory.  It  started  thus.  They  had  been  discussing 
Bome  subject  of  the  day,  when  Owen  observed  to 
Julian, — 

"Why,  how  grave  you  look,  Julian." 

"Do  I?  I  was  thinking  of  something  odd.  "While 
you  were  talking — without  the  faintest  apparent  reason 
that  I  can  discover,  and  I  was  trying  to  hit  upon  one 
when  you  spoke — a  fact  started  up  in  my  mind,  which 
had  no  connection  Avhatever  with  the  subject,  and  yet 
which  forced  itself  quite  strongly  and  obtrusively  or. 
my  notice." 

"  Just  as  one  catches  sight  suddenly  of  some  stray 
bit  of  seaweed  floating  in  a  great  world  of  waters,  which 
seems  to  have  no  business  there,"  said  Kennedy. 

"Yes.  But  there  must  have  been  some  reason  for 
my  thinking  of  it  just  then." 

"  The  law  of  association,  depend  upon  it,"  said 
Owen,  "even  if  the  connecting  links  were  so  subtle  and 
swiftly  moved  that  you  failed  to  detect  their  presence." 

"Are  you  of  the  Materialist  school,  Owen,  about 
memory?"  said  Julian;  ''i.e.  do  you  go  with  Hobbes 
and  Condillac,  and  make  it  a  decaying  sense  or  a 
transformed  sensation  ?" 

"Not  a  bit;  I  believe  it  to  be  a  spiritual  faculty, 
entirely  independent  of  mere  physical  organization." 


PINEAL    GLAXD-OLATRY.  31,^ 

"Wo-ho!"  said  Kennedy;  "the  physiologisis  will 
join  issue  with  you  there.  How,  for  instance,  do  you 
account  for  such  stories  as  that  of  the  grooin,  who, 
getting  a  kick  on  a  particular  part  of  the  head  from  a 
vicious  horse,  suffered  no  harm  except  in  forgetting 
everything  which  had  happened  up  to  that  time  ?" 

"  It  isn't  a  bit  conclusive.  I  don't  say  that  the 
conscious  exercise  of  memory  mayn't  be  temporarily 
dependent  on  organization,  but  I  do  believe  that  every 
fact  ever  imprinted  on  the  memory,  however  long  it 
may  be  latent,  is  of  its  very  nature  imperishable." 

"Yes,"  said  Suton.  "Memory  is  the  book  of  God, 
Did  you  see  that  story  of  the  shipwreck  the  other  day? 
One  of  the  survivors,  while  floating  alone  on  the  dark 
midnight  sea,  suddenly  heard  a  voice  saying  to  him 
distinctly,  '  Johnny,  did  you  eat  sister's  grapes  ?'  It 
was  the  revived  memory  of  a  long- forgotten  childish 
theft.  What  have  the  Pineal  gland-olaters  to  say  to 
that?" 

"  What  a  profound  touch  that  was  of  Themistocles," 
said  Kennedy,  "  who  rejected  the  offer  of  a  Memoria 
Technicha,  with  the  aspiration  that  some  one  could 
teach  him  to  forget!  Lethe  is  the  grandest  of  rivers 
after  all." 

"  I  can  illustrate  what  you  are  saying,"  said  Brcg- 
ten,  "  and  I  believe  it  to  be  true  that  nothing  can  be 
utterly  forgotten.  Yesterday  when  you  saw  me  I  had 
sunk  twice,  and  when  you  rescued  me  I  was  insensible. 
Strange  things  happened  to  my  memory  then  !" 

"Tell  us  !"  said  all  of  them,  eagerly. 

"  Well.  I  believe  it's  an  old  story,  but  I'll  tell  you. 
When  the  first  agony  of  fear,  and  the  sort  of  gulp  of 


ilb*  AN    EVERLASTING    MEMORY. 

asphyxia  was  over,  I  felt  as  if  I  was  sinking  into  a 
pleasant  sleep,  surrounded  by  the  light  of  green 
Oelds " 

"  Because  the  veins  of  the  eye  were  bloodshot,  and 
green  is  the  complementary  color,"  iuterpolated  Ken- 
nedy, whereat  Owen  gave  a  little  incredulous  guflfaw ; 
and  Brogten  continued, — 

"Well,  then  it  was  that  all  my  past  life  flashed  before 
me,  from  the  least  forgotten  venial  fault  of  infiincy  to 
the  worst  passion  of  youth, — only  they  came  to  me 
clear  and  vivid,  in  retrograde  order.  The  lies  I  told 
when  I  was  a  little  boy,  the  wicked  words  I  spoke,  the 
cruel  things  I  did,  the  first  taint  that  polluted  my  mind, 
the  faces  of  school-fellows  whom  I  had  irreparably  in- 
jured, the  stolen  waters  of  manhood — all  were  dashed 
into  my  remorseful  recollection  ;  they  started  up  like 
buried,  menacing  ghosts,  without,  or  even  against  my 
will      I  felt  convinced  that  they  were  indestructible.'' 

"  That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood !" 

thorght  the  auditors,  for  it  was  quite  a  new  thing  to 
hear  Brogten  talk  like  this,  and  in  such  a  solemn, 
manly,  sober  voice. 

"Fancy,"  said  Kennedy,  sighing,  "  a/i  everlasting 
memory  V 

The  others  went  away,  but  Brogten  still  lingered 
in  Kennedy's  rooms,  and,  rising,  took  him  by  the  hand. 
They  both  remembered  another  scene  in  these  rooms, 
when  they  two  were  together, — the  torturer  and  the 
tortured ;  but  it  was  different  now. 

"  The  worst  thing  that  haunted  me,  Kennedy,  when 
you  were  saving  my  life,  was  the  thought  of  my  wicked* 


•'AS  WE    FORGIVE    TilEM."  317 

jiess  to  you.  I  fear  it  can  never  be  repaired ;  yet 
believe  me,  that  from  this  day  forth  I  have  vowed 
before  God  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  my  whole 
effort  will  be  to  do  all  for  you  that  ever  may  be  in  my 
power!     Do  you  forgive  me?" 

"  As  I  hope  to  be  forgiven,"  he  replied. 

Yet  it  was  part  of  Brogten's  punishment  in  after- 
days  to  remember  that  his  hand  had  set  the  stone 
moving,  on  the  steep  hill-side,  which  afterwards  he  had 
no  power  to  stay.  It  would  not  come  back  to  him  for 
a  wish,  but  leapt,  and  rushed,  and  bounded  forward, 
splintering  and  splintered  by  the  obstacles  in  its  course, 

till  at  last Could  it  be  saved  from  being  dashed  to 

shivers  among  the  smooth  rocks  of  the  valley  and  the 
brook  ? 


27* 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

H AZLET. 

'■And  ride  on  his  breast,  and  trouble  his  rest 
In  the  shape  of  his  deadliest  sin." — Anon. 

Before  the  scholarship,  came  the  Little-go,  so  callct' 
in  the  language  of  men,  but  known  to  the  gods  as  the 
Previous  Examination.  As  it  is  an  examination  which 
all  must  pass,  the  standard  required  is  of  course  very 
low,  and  the  subjects  are  merely  Paley's  Evidences,  a 
little  Greek  Testament,  some  easy  Classic,  Scripture 
History,  and  a  sprinkling  of  arithmetic  and  algebra. 

The  reading  men  simply  regard  it  as  a  nuisance, 
interrupting  their  reading  and  wasting  their  time,  i.e. 
until  the  wisdom  of  maturer  years  shows  them  its  ne- 
cessity and  use.  But,  to  the  idle  and  the  stupid,  the 
name  Little-go  is  fraught  with  terror.  It  begins  to 
loom  upon  them  from  the  commencement  of  their 
second  year,  and  all  their  efforts  must  be  concentrated 
to  avoid  the  disgrace  and  hinderance  of  a  pluck.  There 
are  regular  tutors  to  cram  Poll  men  for  this  necessary 
ordeal,  and  the  processes  applied  to  introduce  the 
smallest  possible  modicum  of  information  into  the 
heads  of  the  victims,  the  surgical  operations  necessary 
to  inculcate  into  them  the  simplest  facts,  would,  if  nar- 
rated, form  a  curious  chapter  in  morbid  psychology. 
[  suggest  this  merely  as  a  pregnant  hint  fcr  the  future 
(318) 


"CllAMBE    REPETITA.*  Zl\* 

histctriaii  of  Catnford;  personally,  I  am  only  acquainted 
py  report  with  the  system  resorted  to. 

Hazlet  began  to  be  in  a  fright  about  the  Little-go, 
from  the  very  commencement  of  his  second  October. 
His  mother  well  knew  that  the  examination  was  ap 
proaching,  and  thought  it  quite  impossible  that  h(r 
ingenuous  and  right-minded  son  could  fall  a  victim  to 
the  malice  of  examiners.  Hazlet  was  not  so  sure  of 
this  himself,  and  as  the  days  had  passed  by  when  he 
could  speak  of  the  classics  with  a  holy  indignation 
against  their  vices  "and  idolatry,  he  was  wrought  up  by 
dread  of  the  coming  papers  into  a  high  state  of  nerv- 
ous excitement. 

I  will  not  betray  the  mistake  he  made,  or  disli  up 
in  this  place  the  "  crambe  rep^tita"  of  those  Little-go 
anecdotes,  which  at  this  period  of  the  year  awaken  the 
laughter  of  combination  rooms,  and  dissipate  the  dull- 
ness of  Camford  life.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  Hazlet 
displayed  an  ignorance  at  once  egregious  and  astound- 
ing; the  ingenious  perversity  of  his  mistakes,  the  fat- 
uous absurdity  of  his  confusions,  would  be  inconceivable 
to  any  who  do  not  know  by  experience  the  extraordi- 
nary combinations  of  ignorance  and  conceit.  The  ex- 
aminers were  very  lenient  and  forbearing,  but  Hazlet 
«»^as  nlucked  ;  plucked,  too,  in  Scripture  History,  whicl. 
astonished  everybody,  until  it  became  known  that  he 
had  attributed  John  the  Baptist's  death  to  his  having 
"  danced  with  Herodia's  daughter" — traced  a  connec- 
tion between  the  Old  and  New  Testaments  in  the  fact 
of  St.  Peter's  having  cut  off  the  ear  of  Malachi,  the 
last  of  the  prophets — and  stated  that  the  substance  of 
St.  Paul'.?  sermon  at  Athens,  was  "  crying  vehemently 


320  IIAZLET    PLUCKED, 

about  the  space  of  two  hours,  Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians  !" 

It  is  a  sad  pity  that  such  ludicrous  associations  should 
center  round  the  word  "  pluck."     It  is  anything  but  a 
laughing  matter  to  those  who  undergo    the    process; 
they  have  tried  hard  and  worked  diligently,  perhaps, 
to  pass  the  examination,  and,  if  they  fail,  they  see  be- 
fore them  another  long  period  of  weary  and  dissatis- 
fied effort,  with   the  same  probability  of  failure,  again 
and  again  repeated ;  for,  until  the  barrier  of  Little-go 
is  passed,  they  can  advance  no  further,  and  must  sim- 
ply stay  at  Camford,  until,  in  some  way  or  other,  they 
can  succeed  in  getting  up   the  requisite  minimum  of 
information.     I  have  seen  a  strong  man  in  the  senate- 
house  turn  as  white  as  a  sheet,  when  a  paper  which  he 
was  unable  to  answer  was  placed  before  him.     I  fancy 
I  see  him  now,  and  distinctly  remember  my  strong  feel- 
ing of  compassion  for  his  distress,  and  my  earnest  hope 
that  he  would  not  be  "floored." 

There  was  a  general  laugh  in  St.  Werner's  when 
it  was  announced  that  Hazlet  was  plucked  —  and  in 
Scripture  History,  too  !  His  follies  and  inconsisten- 
cies had,  unhappily,  made  him  a  butt ;  but  men  little 
knew  how  heavily  the  misfortune  would  weigh  upon 
him. 

He  happened  at  this  time  to  be  living  on  the  same 
staircase  with  Lillyston,  and  Lillyston,  who  was  in 
the  rooms  below  him,  was  quite  amazed  at  the  sounds 
which  he  heard  proceeding  from  his  rooms.  For  a  long 
time  there  was  a  series  of  boo-hoos,  long,  loud,  and 
wailing,  as  of  some  animal  in  distress,  and  then  there 
was  an  uproar  as  of  some  one  running  viijlently  about, 


BOO-HOO.  321 

and  throwing  the  furniture  out  of  his  way.  Lillysion 
was  just  on  the  point  of  going  to  see  what  was  tht 
matter,  when  the  breathless  bed-maker  appeared  at  the 
door,  and  said, — 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lillyston,  sir,  do  go  and  look  at  Mr. 
Hazlet,  sir ;  he's  took  very  bad,  he  is  !" 

"  Took  very  bad — how  do  you  mean?" 

"  Why,  sir,  it's  the  Little-go,  sir,  as  done  it.  He's 
plucked,  sir,  and  it's  upset  him  like.  So,  when  I  asked 
him  if  he'd  a  tea'd,  and  if  I  should  take  away  the 
things,  he  begins  a  banging  his  chairs  about,  you  see, 
sir,  quite  uncomfortable." 

Lillyston  immediately  ran  up  stairs.  The  violent 
fit  seemed  to  have  subsided,  for  Hazlet,  peering  out  of 
a  corner,  with  wandering,  spectacled  eyes,  quite  cow- 
ered when  he  saw  him.  Lillyston  was  shocked  at  the 
spectacle  he  presented.  Hazlet  was  but  half  dressed ; 
his  hands  kept  up  an  uneasy  and  vague  motion,  his 
face  was  blank,  and  his  whole  appearance  resembled 
that  of  an  idiot. 

"  Why,  Hazlet,  my  man,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?"  said  Lillyston,  cheerily. 

Hazlet  trembled,  and  muttered  something  about  a 
dog.  It  happened  that  just  before  coming  back  from 
the  senate-house,  a  large  Newfoundland  had  run  against 
him,  and  his  excited  imagination  had  mingled  this 
most  recent  impression  with  the  vagaries  of  a  tempo- 
rary madness. 

"  The  dog,  my  dear  fellow ;  why,  there's  no  dog 
here." 

Hazlet  cowered  farther  into  the  corner. 


322  T.ooK  out! 

"Here,  wcn't  you  have  some  tea ''  said  Lillyston  ; 
"  I'll  make  it  for  you.      Come  and  help  me." 

He  began  to  busy  himself  about  setting  the  tea- 
things,  and  cutting  the  bread,  while  he  occupied  Hazlet 
in  pouring  out  the  water  and  attending  to  the  kettle. 
Hazlet  started  violently  every  now  and  then,  and 
looked  with  a  terrified  side-glance  at  Lillyston,  as 
though  apprehensive  of  some  wrong. 

At  last  Lillyston  got  him  to  sit  down  quietly,  and 
gave  him  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  bread.  He  ate  it  in 
silence,  except  that  every  now  and  then  he  uttered  a 
sort  of  wail,  and  looked  up  at  Lillyston.  The  look 
didn't  seem  to  satisfy  him,  for,  after  a  few  minutes, 
he  seized  his  knife,  and  said:  "I  sball  cut  off  your 
whiskers." 

What  put  the  grotesque  fancy  into  his  head,  Lilly- 
ston did  not  know ;  probably  some  faint  reminiscence 
of  having  been  forced  to  shave  after  the  trick  which 
Bruce  had  played  on  him  by  painting  his  face  with 
lampblack  and  ochre. 

Lillyston  decidedly  declined  the  proposition,  and 
they  both  started  up  from  their  seats — Hazlet  brand- 
ishing his  knife  with  determined  purpose,  and  looking 
at  his  companion  with  a  strange  savage  glare  under 
his  spectacles. 

After  darting  round  the  room  once  or  twice  to 
escape  his  attack,  Lillyston  managed  with  wonderful 
skill  to  clutch  the  wrist  of  Hazlet's  right  hand,  and, 
being  very  strong,  he  held  him  with  the  grasp  of  a  vice, 
while  with  his  left  hand  he  forced  the  knife  out  of  his 
clutch,  and  dropped  it  on  the  floor.  He  held  him  tight 
for  a  minute  or   two,   although    Hazlet    struggled   so 


NO    MISCHIEF.  323 

fiercely,  that  it  was  no  easy  task,  and  then  quietly 
forced  him  into  a  chair,  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  firrc 
authoritative  voice, — 

"  No  mischief,  Hazlet ;  we  shan't  allow  it.  Now, 
listen  to  me:  you  must  go  to  bed.'* 

The  tone  of  voice  and  the  strength  of  will  which 
characterized  Lillyston's  proceedings  awed  Hazlet  into 
Bubmissioi.  He  cried  a  little,  and  then  suffered  Lilly- 
Bton  to  see  him  into  his  rooms,  and  to  put  him  into  a 
fair  way  toward  going  to  bed.  Taking  the  precautioi! 
to  remove  his  razor,  Lillyston  locked  the  door  upon 
him,  and  determined  at  once  to  get  medical  advice. 
The  doctor,  howev|r,  could  give  very  little  help  ;  it  was, 
he  said,  a  short  fit  of  temporary  madness,  for  which 
quiet  and  change  of  air  were  the  only  effectual  reme- 
dies. He  did  not  anticipate  that  there  would  be  any 
other  outbreak  of  violence,  or  anything  more  than  a 
partial  imbecility. 

"  Do  come  and  help  me  to  manage  Hazlet,"  said 
Lillyston  to  Julian,  next  morning;  "  his  head  has  been 
turned  by  being  plucked  for  the  Little-go,  and  he's  as 
mad  as  Hercules  Furens." 

Julian  went,  and  they  stayed  in  Hazlet's  room  till 
he  had  quietly  breakfasted.  He  then  appeared  to  be 
so  calm  that  Lillyston  agreed  to  leave  Julian  there  for 
the  morning,  and  to  take  the  charge  of  Hazlet  for  the 
afternoon  and  evening.  It  seemed  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  some  one  should  take  charge  of  him,  and  they 
thouarht  it  best  to  divide  the  labor. 

Julian  sorely  felt  the  loss  of  time.  He  had  a  great 
deal  to  get  through  before  the  all-important  scholarship 
examination,   and    the  loss    of    every  available    hour 


£524  A    LUCID    INTERVAL. 

fretted  him,  for  since  he  had  failed  in  the  Clerkland, 

he  was  doubly  anxious  to  gain  a  St.  Werner's  scholar- 

Bhip  at  his  first  time  of  trial.     Still  he  never  wavered 

for  a  moment  in  the  determination  to  fulfill  the  duty  of 

takino-  care  of  his  Ildown  acquaintance,  and  he  spent 

o  ...  ,  . 

the  whole  tedious  morning  m  trying  to  amuse  him. 

Hazlet's  ceaseless  allusions  to  "  the  dog,"  and  the 
feeble  terror  which  it  seemed  to  cause  him,  made  it 
necessary  to  talk  to  him  incessantly,  and  to  turn  his 
attention,  as  far  as  possible,  to  other  things.  He  had 
to  be  managed  like  a  very  willful  and  stupid  child;  and 
when  one  of  the  five  hours  which  Julian  had  to  spend 
with  him  was  finished,  he  was  worr^  out  with  anxiety 
and  fatigue.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  alone  in 
charge  of  a  human  being  —  a  being  in  human  shape, 
who  is,  either  by  accident  or  constitution,  incapable 
alike  of  responsibility  and  thought.  Hazlet  had  been 
able  to  play  draughts  pretty  well,  so  Julian  got  out  a 
board  and  challenged  him  to  a  game ;  but,  instead  of 
playing,  Hazlet  only  scrabbled  on  the  board,  and 
pushed  the  pieces  about  in  a  meaningless  confusion, 
while  every  now  and  then  the  sullen  glare  came  into 
his  eye,  which  showed  Julian  the  necessity  of  being  on 
his  guard  if  self-defense  should  be  needed.  Then 
Julian  tried  to  get  him  to  draw,  and  showing  him  a 
picture,  sketched  a  few  strokes  of  outline,  and  said, — 

"Now,  Hazlet,  finish  copying  this  pictui-e  for  me." 

Hazlet  took  the  pencil  between  his  unsteady  fingers, 
and  let  it  make  futile  scratches  on  the  paper,  and  when 
Julian  repeated  his  words,  wrote  down  in  a  slow  pain- 
ful hand — 

"  Finish  copying  pict  -  -  ure  pict  -  -" 


"MISERIS  SUCCUilREUE  DISCO."  32fi 

Wh.at  was  to  be  done  in  such  a  case  as  this  ?  Julian 
Buggestcd  a  turn  in  the  grounds,  but  Hazlet  betrayed 
such  dread  at  the  thought  of"  leavin2  his  rooms  ard 
encountering  "the  dog,"  that  Julian  was  afraid,  if  he 
persisted,  of  driving  him  into  a  fit. 

Just  as  the  dilemma  was  becoming  seriously  unpleas- 
ant, Brogten  came  up  to  the  rooms,  and  begged  Julian 
to  intrust  Hazlet  to  his  charge. 

"Towr  time  is  valuable,  Home — particularly  just 
now.  Mine  is  all  but  worthless.  At  any  rate,  I  have 
no  special  work  as  you  have,  and  I  can  take  care  of 
poor  Hazlet  very  well." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Julian;  "I  mustn't  shrink  from  the 
duty  I  have  undertaken;  and  besides,  you'll  find  it  very 
dull  and  unpleasant  work." 

"Never  mind  that.  I  once  had  an  idiot  brother — 
dead  now — and  I  understand  well  how  to  manage  any 
one  in  a  case  like  this.  Besides,  Hazlet  is  one  of  the 
tnany  I  have  injured.     Let  me  stay." 

"  I  really  am  afraid  you  won't  like  it." 

"  Nonsense,  Home  ;  I  won't  give  in,  depend  upon  it. 
I  am  quite  in  earnest,  and  am  besides  most  anxious 
that  you  should  get  a  scholarship  this  time.  Don't 
refuse  me  the  privilege  of  helping  you." 

Julian  could  refuse  no  longer,  and  went  back  to  his 
rooms  with  perfect  confidence  that  Brogten  would  do 
his  work  willingly  and  well.  He  looked  in  about  mid- 
day to  see  how  things  were  going  on,  and  found  that, 
after  thoroughly  succeeding  in  amusing  his  patient, 
Brogten  had  persuaded  him  to  go  to  sleep,  in  the  con- 
viction that  by  the  time  he  awoke  he  would  be  nearly 
well.     Nor  was   he   mistaken.     The   next  day  Hazlet 

28 


326  RECKLESSNESS*. 

was  suflRciently  recovered  to  go  home  for  the  Easter 
vacation. 

It  was  a  very  bitter  and  humiliating  trial  to  him : 
but  misfortune,  however  frequently  it  causes  reforma- 
tion, is  not  invariably  successful  in  changing  a  man's 
heart  and  life.  Hazlet  came  back  after  the  Easter 
vacation  with  recovered  health,  but  damaged  constitu- 
tion, and  in  no  respect  either  better  or  wiser  for  the 
misfortune  he  had  undergone. 

One  peculiarity  of  his  recent  attack  was  a  strong 
nervous  excitability,  which  was  induced  by  very  slight 
causes,  and  Hazlet  had  not  long  returned  to  St.  Wer- 
ner's when  the  dissipation  of  his  life  began  once  more 
to  tell  perniciously  upon  his  state  of  health.  It  must 
not  be  imagined  that  because  he  was  the  easiest  possi- 
ble victim  of  temptation,  he  suffered  no  upbraidings  of 
a  terrified  and  remorseful  conscience.  Many  a  time 
they  overv/helmed  him  with  agony  and  a  dread  of  the 
future,  mingling  with  his  slavish  terrors  of  a  material 
Gehenna,  and  stirring  up  his  turbid  thoughts  until  they 
drove  him  to  the  verge  of  madness.  But  the  inward 
chimera  of  riotous  passions  was  too  fierce  for  the  weak 
human  reason,  and  while  he  hated  himself,  he  continued 
still  to  sin. 

Late  one  night  he  was  returning  to  his  rooms  from 
the  foul  haunts  of  squalid  dissipation  and  living  death, 
when  the  thought  of  his  own  intolerable  condition 
pressed  on  him  with  a  heavier  than  usual  weight.  It 
was  a  very  cloudy  night,  and  he  had  long  exceeded  the 
usual  college  hours.  The  wind  tossed  about  his  clothes, 
and  dashed  in  his  face  a  keen  impalpable  sleet,  while 
nothing  dispelled  the  darkness  except  the  occasional 


A    SHRIEK.  3£7 

gleam  of  a  lamp  struggling  fitfully  with  the  driving 
mist.  Hazlet  reached  St.  Werner's  wet  and  miserable; 
in  returning  he  had  lost  his  way,  and  wandered  into 
the  most  disreputable  and  poverty-stricken  streets,  the 
very  homes  of  thievery  and  dirt,  where  he  seriously 
feared  for  his  personal  safety.  By  the  time  he  got  to 
the  college  gates  he  was  drenched  through  and  through, 
and  while  his  body  shivered  with  the  cold  air,  the  con- 
dition of  his  mind  was  agitated  and  terrified,  and  the 
sudden  blaze  of  \ijA\t  that  fell  on  him  from  the  large 
college  lamp,  as  the  gates  opened,  dazzled  his  unac- 
customed eyes. 

Hastily  running  across  tne  court  to  his  own  rooms, 
he  groped  his  way — giddy  and  crapulous — up  the  dark 
and  narrow  staircase,  and,  after  some  fumbling  with  his 
key,  opened  the  door. 

Lillyston,  Avho  was  just  going  to  bed  after  a  long 
evening  of  hard  work,  heard  his  footstep  on  the  stairs, 
and  thought  with  sorrow  that  he  had  not  mended  his 
old  bad  ways.  He  heard  him  open  the  door,  and  then 
a  long  wild  shriek,  followed  by  the  sound  of  some  one 
falling,  rang  through  the  buildings. 

In  an  instant  Lillyston  had  darted  up  stairs,  and 
the  other  men  who  "kept"  on  the  staircase  jumped 
out  of  bed  hastily,  thrust  on  their  slippers,  and  also 
ran  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  As  Lillyston 
leached  the  threshold  of  Hazlet's  rooms,  he  stumbled 
against  something,  and,  stooping  down,  found  that  it 
was  the  senseless  body  of  Hazlet  himself  stretched  at 
full  length  upon  the  floor. 

He  looked  up,  but  saw  nothing  to  explain  the  mys. 
tery ;  the  rooms  were  iu  darkness,  except  that  a  dull, 


828  "degrading. 

blue  flame,  flickering  over  the  black  and  red  relic3  c( 
the  fire,  threw  fantastic  gleams  across  the  furniture 
and  ceiling,  and  gave  an  odd,  wild  appearance  to  the 
cap  and  gown  that  hung  beside  the  door. 

Lillyston  was  filled  with  surprise,  and  lit  the  candle 
on  the  table.  Lifting  Hazlet  on  the  sofa,  he  carefully 
looked  at  him  to  see  if  he  was  correct  in  his  first  sur- 
mise, that  the  unhappy  man  had  swallowed  poison,  or 
committed  suicide  in  some  other  way.  But  there  was 
no  trace  of  anything  of  the  kind,  and  Hazlet  merely 
appeared  to  have  fainted  and  fallen  suddenly. 

Aided  by  Noel,  one  of  those  who  had  been  alarmed 
by  that  piercing  shriek,  Lillyston  took  the  proper 
means  to  revive  Hazlet  from  his  fainting  fit,  and  put 
him  to  bed.  He  rapidly  recovered  his  consciousness,  but 
earnestly  begged  them  not  to  press  him  on  the  subject 
of  his  alarm,  respecting  which  he  was  unable  or  unwilling 
to  give  them  any  information. 

The  next  morning  he  was  very  ill ;  excitement  and 
anxiety  brought  on  a  brain  fever,  which  kept  him  for 
many  weary  weeks  in  his  sick-room,  and  from  which 
he  had  not  fully  recovered  until  after  a  long  stay  at 
Ildown.  As  he  lost,  in  consequence  of  this  attack,  the 
whole  of  the  ensuing  term,  he  was  obliged  to  degrade, 
as  it  is  called,  i.e.  to  place  his  name  on  the  list  of  the 
year  below ;  and  he  did  not  return  to  Camford  till  the 
following  October,  where  his  somewhat  insignificant 
individuality  had  been  almost  forgotten. 

Let  us  anticipate  a  little  to  throw  light  on  what  we 
have  narrated. 

When  Hazlet  did  come  back  to  undergraduate  life, 
he  at  once  sought  the  alienated  friends  from  whom  he 


NOT    A    FUSILE    CHRISTIAN.  32fl 

had  been  separated  ever  since  the  disastrous  period  of 
his  acquaintanceship  with  Bruce.  He  came  back  to 
them  penitent  and  humble,  with  those  convictions  now 
existing  in  his  mind,  in  their  reality  and  genuineness, 
which  before  he  had  only  simulated  so  successfully  as 
to  deceive  himself.  I  will  not  sav  that  he  did  not  con« 
tinue  ignorant  and  bigoted,  but  he  was  no  longer  con- 
ceited and  malicious.  I  will  not  say  that  he  never 
showed  himself  dogmatic  and  ill  informed,  but  he  was 
no  longer  obtrusive  and  uncharitable.  His  life  was 
better  than  his  dogmas,  and  the  sincerity  of  his  good 
intentions  counteracted  and  nullified  the  ill  effects  of  a 
narrow  and  unwholesome  creed.  There  were  no  further 
inconsistencies  in  his  conduct,  and  he  showed  firmly 
yet  modestly  the  line  he  meant  to  follow,  and  the  side 
he  meant  to  take.  As  his  conscience  had  become 
scrupulous,  and  his  life  irreproachable,  it  mattered 
comparatively  little  that  his  intellectual  character  was 
tainted  with  fanaticism  and  gloom. 

I  would  not  be  mistaken  to  mean  that  he  found  his 
penitence  easy,  or  that  he  was,  like  St.  Paul,  transformed 
as  it  were  by  a  lightning  flash — "  a  fusile  Christian." 
I  say,  there  were — after  his  two  sicknesses  and  long 
Buffering,  and  experiences  bitter  as  wormwood — there 
were,  I  say,  no  more  outward  inconsistencies  in  his 
life  ;  but  I  do  not  say  that  within  there  were  no  fierce, 
fearful  struggles,  so  wearisome  at  times  that  it  almost 
seemed  better  to  yield  than  to  feel  the  continued 
anguish  of  such  mighty  temptations.  All  this  the 
man  must  always  go  through  who  has  warmed  in  his 
bosom  the  viper  whose  poisoned  fang  has  sent  infection 
aito  his  blood.     But  through  God's  grace  Hazlet  was 

28* 


330  TUB    LEES    AFTER    THE    WINE. 

victorious  ;  and  as,  when  the  civilization  of  some  infant 
colony  is  advancing  on  the  confines  of  a  desert,  the 
wild  beasts  retire  before  it,  until  they  become  rare,  and 
their  howling  is  only  heard  in  the  lonely  night,  and 
then  even  that  sign  of  their  fury  is  but  a  strange  oc- 
currence, until  it  is  heard  no  more ;  so  in  Ilazlet,  the 
many-headed  monsters,  which  breed  in  the  slime  of  a 
fallen  human  heart,  were  one  by  one  slain  or  driven 
backward  by  watchfulness,  and  shame,  and  prayer. 

Julian  and  Lillyston  had  never  shunned  his  society, 
either  when  he  breathed  the  odor  of  sanctity  or  when 
he  sank  into  the  slough  of  recklessness.  Both  cf 
them  were  sufficiently  conscious  of  the  heart's  weakness 
to  prevent  them  from  the  cold  and  melancholy  pre- 
sumption which  leads  weak  and  sinful  men  to  desert 
and  denounce  those  whom  the  good  spirits  have  not  yet 
deserted,  and  whom  the  good  God  has  not  finally  con- 
demned. As  long  as  he  sought  their  society,  they  were 
always  open  to  his  company,  however  distasteful ;  and 
the  advice  they  gave  him  was  tendered  in  simple  good- 
will— not  as  though  from  the  haughty  vantage-ground 
of  a  superior  excellence.  Even  when  Hazlet  was  at 
the  worst — when  to  be  seen  with  him,  after  the  pub- 
licity of  his  vices,  involved  something  like  a  slur  on  a 
man's  fair  name — even  in  these  his  worst  days  neither 
Julian  nor  Lillyston  would  have  refused,  had  he  so  de- 
sired it,  to  walk  with  him  under  the  lime-tree  avenue, 
or  up  and  down  the  cloisters  of  Warwick's  court. 

But  they  naturally  met  him  more  often  when  his 
manner  of  life  was  changed  for  the  better,  and  were 
both  glad  to  see  that  he  had  found  the  jewel  which  ad- 
versity possessed.     It  happened  that  he  was  with  thecB 


GHOSTS — A    man's    FINGERS.  33j 

one  evening  when  the  conversation  turr  ed  on  supcT' 
natural  appearances,  the  possibility  of  which  was  main- 
tained by  Julian  and  Owen,  while  Lilljston  in  his 
genial  way  was  pooh-poohing  them  altogether.  Hazlet 
alone  sat  silent,  but  at  last  he  said, — 

"  I  have  never  yet  mentioned  to  any  living  soul  what 
once  happened  to  me,  but  I  will  do  so  now.  Lillyston, 
you  remember  the  night  when  I  aroused  you  with  a 
Bcream  ?" 

"  Well !"  said  Lillyston. 

"  That  nio;ht  I  was  returnins;  in  all  the  bitterness  of 
remorse  from  places  where,  but  for  God's  blessing,  I 
might  have  perished  utterly" — and  Hazlet  shuddered — 
"  when  from  out  of  the  storm  and  darkness  I  reached 
my  room  door.  You  know  that  a  beam  ran  right  across 
my  ceiling.  When  I  threw  open  the  door  to  enter,  I 
saw  on  that  beam  as  clearly  as  I  now  see  you — no, 
more  clearly^  far  more  clearly  than  I  now  see  you,  for 
your  presence  makes  no  special  impression  on  me,  and 
this  was  burnt  into  my  very  brain — I  saw  there  written 
in  letters  of  fire,- — 

'And  this  is  IIell.' 

Struck  dumb  with  horror,  I  stared  at  it ;  there  could 
be  no  doubt  about  it,  the  letters  burned  and  glared  and 
reddened  before  my  very  eyes,  and  seemed  to  wave 
like  the  northern  lights,  and  bicker  into  angrier  flame 
as  I  looked  at  them.  They  fascinated  me  as  I  stood 
there  dumb  and  stupefied,  when  suddenly  I  saw  the 
dark  and  massive  form  of  a  hand,  over  which  hung  the 
skirt  of  a  black  robe,  moving  slowly  away  from  the 
last  letter.     What  more  I  migJit  have  seen  I  cannot 


382  "AND—" 

iell ;  it  was  then  that  I  fell  and  fainted,  and  my  shriek 
startled  all  the  men  on  the  staircase." 

Hazlet  told  his  story  with  such  deep  solemnity,  and 
such  hollow  pauses  of  emotion,  that  the  listeners  sat 
silent  for  awhile. 

"But  yet,"  said  Liilyston,  "if  you  come  to  analyze 
this,  it  resolves  itself  into  nothing.  You  were  con- 
fessedly agitated,  and  almost  hysterical  that  night ; 
your  body  was  unstrung ;  you  Avere  wet  through,  and 
it  was  doubtless  the  sudden  passage  from  the  darkness 
outside  to  the  dim  and  uncertain  glimmer  of  your  own 
room,  which  acted  so  powerfully  on  your  excited  im- 
aginacion  as  to  project  your  inward  thoughts  into  a 
shape  which  you  mistook  for  an  external  appearance. 
I  remember  noticing  the  aspect  of  your  rooms  myself 
that  evening ;  the  mysterious  shadows,  and  the  mingled 
effects  of  dull  red  firelight  with  black  objects,  together 
with  the  rustle  of  the  red  curtain  in  front  of  your  win- 
dow which  you  had  left  open,  and  the  weird  Avaving  of 
your  black  gown  in  the  draught,  made  such  an  impres- 
sion even  on  me,  merelj^  in  consequence  of  the  alarm 
your  shriek  had  excited,  that  I  could  have  fancied  anj/- 
thing  myself,  if  I  wasn't  pretty  strong  headed  and 
rather  prosaic.  As  it  was,  I  did  half  fancy  an  unknown 
Presence  in  the  room." 

"Yes,  but  you  say  inward  thoughts,"  replied  Hazlet, 
eagerly.  "Now  these  werent  my  inward  thoughts;  on 
the  contrary,  they  flashed  on  me  like  a  revelation,  and 
the  strange  word,  'And' — for  I  read  distinctly  '  And 
this  is* —  was  to  me  like  an  awful  copula  connecting 
time  and  eternity  forever.  I  had  always  thought  of 
quite  another,  quite  a  different  hell;  but  tbs  showed 


UBJEUTIVE  OR  SUBJECTIVE  ?         333 

me  for  the  first  time  that  the  state  of  sinfulness  is  the. 
hell  of  sin.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  T  came 
across  those  lines  of  Milton — oh,  how  true  they  are,— 

'Which  way  I  iiy  is  holl,  myself  am  hell, 
And  iu  the  lowest  deep  a  lower  deep 
Still  gaping  to  devour  me  opens  wide, 
To  which  the  hell  I  suffer  seems  a  heaven.' 

It  was  the  truth  conveyed  in  those  lines  which  I  then 
first  discovered,  and  discovered,  it  seems  to  me,  from 
without.  I  know  very,  very  little — I  am  shamefully 
ignorant,  but  I  do  think  that  the  vision  of  that  night 
taught  me  more  than  a  thousand  volumes  of  scholastic 
theology.  And  let  me  say,  too,"  he  continued,  humbly, 
"  that  by  it  I  was  plucked  like  a  brand  from  the  burn- 
ing ;  by  it  my  conversion  was  brought  about." 

None  of  the  others  were  in  a  mood  to  criticise  the 
phraseology  of  Hazlet's  religious  convictions,  and  he 
clearly  desired  that  the  subject  of  his  own  immediate 
experiences,  as  being  one  full  of  awfulness  for  him, 
might  be  dropped. 

"Apropos  of  your  argument,  I  care  very  little, 
Hugh,"  said  Julian,  "whether  you  make  supernatural 
appearances  objective  or  subjective.  I  mean  I  don't 
care  whether  you  regard  the  appearance  as  a  mere  de- 
ception of  the  eye,  wrought  by  the  disordered  workings 
of  the  brain,  or  as  the  actual  presence  of  a  supernatural 
phenomenon.  The  result,  the  effect,  the  reality  of  the 
appearance  is  just  the  same  in  either  case.  Whether 
the  end  is  produced  by  an  illusion  of  the  senses,  or  an 
appeal  to  them,  the  end  is  produced,  and  the  senses  are 
impressed  by  something  which  is  not  in  the  ordinary 


334  THE    LITERATURE    OF    GHOSTS. 

course  of  liuman  events,  just  as  powerfully  as  if  tliM 
ghost  had  flesh  and  blood,  or  the  voice  were  a  veritablo 
pulsation  of  articulated  air.  The  only  thing  that  an- 
noys me  is  a  contemptuous  and  supercilious  denial  of 
the  facts.'' 

"I  hold  with  you,  Julian,"  said  Owen.  "Take  for 
instance  the  innumerable  recorded  instances  where  in- 
timation has  been  given  of  a  fiiend's  or  relative's  death 
by  the  simultaneous  appearance  of  his  image  to  some 
one  far  absent,  and  unconscious  even  of  his  illness. 
There  are  four  ways  of  treating  such  stories — the  first 
is  to  deny  their  truth,  which  is,  to  say  the  least,  not 
only  grossly  uncharitable,  but  an  absurd  and  imper- 
tinent caprice  adopted  in  order  to  reject  unpleasant 
evidence ;  the  second  is  to  account  for  them  by  an 
optical  delusion,  accidentally  synchronizing  with  the 
event,  which  seems  to  me  a  most  monstrous  ignoring 
of  the  law  of  chances ;  a  third  is  to  account  for  them 
by  the  existence  of  some  exquisite  faculty,  existing  in 
different  degrees  of  intensity,  and  in  some  people  not 
existing  at  all,  whereby  physical  impressions  are  in- 
visibly conveyed  by  some  mysterious  sympathy  of 
organization — a  faculty  of  which  it  seems  to  me  there 
are  the  most  abundant  traces,  however  much  it  may  be 
sneered  and  jeered  at  by  those  shallow  philosophers 
who  believe  nothing  but  what  they  can  grasp  with  both 
hands ;  and  a  fourth  is  to  suppose  that  spirits  can,  of 
their  own  will,  or  by  superior  permission,  make  them- 
selves sometimes  visible  to  human  eyes." 

"Or,"  said  Julian,  "so  affect  the  senses  as  to  pro- 
duce the  impression  that  they  are  present  to  human 
eyes." 


!S0   IT  WAS.  335 

"And  to  show  you,  Lillyston,"  said  Owen,  "how 
little  I  fear  any  natural  explanations,  and  how  much  I 
think  them  beside  the  point,  I'll  tell  you  what  hap- 
pened to  me  only  the  other  night,  and  which  yet  does 
not  make  me  at  all  inclined  to  rationalize  Hazlet'3 
story.  I  had  just  put  out  the  candle  in  my  bedroom, 
when  over  my  head  I  saw  a  handwritting  on  the  wall 
in  characters  of  light.  I  started  out  of  bed,  and  for  a 
moment  fancied  that  I  could  read  the  words,  and  that 
somebody  had  been  playing  me  a  trick  with  phosphorus. 
But  the  next  minute,  I  saw  how  it  was ;  the  moonlight 
was  shining  in  through  the  little  muslin  folds  of  the 
lower  blind,  and  as  the  folds  were  very  symmetrical, 
the  checkered  reflection  on  the  wall  looked  exactly  like 
a  series  of  words." 

"  Weil,  now,  that  would  have  made  a  capital  ghost 
story,"  said  Lillyston,  "if  you  had  been  a  little  more 
imaginative  and  nervous.  And  still  more,  if  the  illusion 
had  only  been  partially  optical,  and  partly  the  result 
of  excited  feelings." 

"It  matters  nothing  to  me,"  said  Hazlet,  rising, 
"whether  the  characters  I  saw  were  written  by  the 
dnger  of  a  man's  hand  or  limned  by  spirits  on  the 
aensormm  of  the  brain.  All  I  know  is  that— thank 
(Jodt — they  iverc  there." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

JULIAN    AND     KENNEDY. 

"But  there,  where  I  have  garnered  up  my  heart; 
Where  either  I  must  live,  or  bear  no  life ; 
The  fountain  from  the  which  my  current  runs, 
Or  else  dries  up  ;  to  be  discarded  thence  I 
Patience,  thou  young  and  rose-lipped  cherubim  ! 
Ay,  there,  look  grim  as  hell!" 

Othello,  Act  iv.  sc.  2. 

St.  Werner's  clock,  with  "  its  male  and  female 
voice,"  has  just  told  the  university  that  it  is  nine 
o'clock. 

A  little  crowd  of  St.  Wernerians  is  standing  before 
the  chapel  door,  and  even  the  grass  in  the  lawn  in 
front  of  it  is  hardly  sacred  to-day  from  common  feet. 
The  throng,  composed  of  undergraduates,  dons,  bed- 
makers,  and  gyps,  is  broken  into  knots  of  people,  who 
are  chatting  together  according  to  their- several  kinds; 
but  they  are  so  quiet  and  expectant,  that  the  very 
pigeons  hardly  notice  them,  but  flutter  about  and  coo 
and  peck  up  the  scattered  bread  crumbs,  just  as  if 
Qobody  was  there.  If  you  look  attentively  round  the 
court,  you  will  see,  too,  that  many  of  the  windows  arc 
open,  and  you  may  detect  faces  half  concealed  among 
the  window  curtains.  Clearly  everybody  is  on  the 
look  out  for  something,  though  it  is  yet  vacation  time, 
and  only  a  small  section  of  the  men  are  up. 

The  door  opens,  and  out  sail  the  seniors,  more  than 
(336) 


A    SCENE    AT    ST.  WERNER'S.  337 

ever  conscious  of  pride  and  power.  They  stream  awaj 
in  silk  gowns,  carrying  on  their  faces  the  smile  of 
knowledge,  even  into  their  isolation,  where  no  one  can 
see  it.  For  some  reason  or  other  they  always  meet  in 
chapel,  or,  for  all  I  know,  it  may  be  in  the  antc-chapel, 
to  elect  the  St.  Werner's  scholars. 

And  now  the  much  talked  of,  much  thought  of,  anx- 
iously expected  list,  which  is  to  make  so  many  happy 
or  miserable,  is  to  be  announced.  On  that  little  bit 
of  paper  which  the  chapel  clerk  holds  in  his  hands  as 
he  stands  on  the  chapel  steps  are  the  names  which 
everybody  has  been  longing  to  conjecture.  He  comes 
out  and  reads.  There  are  nine  scholarships  vacant,  of 
which  five  will  be  given  to  the  third-year  men,  and  four 
to  Julian's  year. 

The  five  third-year  men  are  read  first,  and  as  each 
name  is  announced,  ofi"  darts  some  messenger  from  the 
crowd  to  carry  the  happy  intelligence  to  some  expect- 
ant senior  soph.  The  heads  of  listeners  lean  farther 
and  farther  out  of  the  window,  for  the  clerk  speaks  so 
loud  as  to  make  his  voice  heard  right  across  the  court ; 
and  the  wires  of  the  telegraph  are  instantly  put  into 
requisition,  to  flash  the  news  to  many  homes,  which  it 
will  fill  either  with  rejoicing  or  with  sorrow. 

And  now  for  the  four  second-year  scholars,  who 
have  gained  the  honor  of  a  scholarship  their  first  time 
of  trial,  and  whose  success  excited  a  still  keener  inter- 
est. They  are  read  out  in  the  accidental  order  of  the 
first  entering  of  their  names  in  the  college  books. 

Silence  !  the  second-year  scholars  are — 

Dudley  Charles  Owen,  (for  the  names  are  always 
read  out  at  full  length,  Christian  names  and  all ;) 

29 


,^;?8  rilE    SCHOLARS. 

Julian  Home  ; 

Albert  Henry  Suton ; 
aiid  it  is*  a  very  astonishing  fact,  but  the  fourth  is 

Hugh  James  Lillyston 
Who  would  have  believed  it  ?  Everybody  expected 
Owen  and  Home  to  get  scholarships  their  first 
time,  an<l  Suton  was  considered  fairly  safe  of  one ; 
but  that  Kennedy  should  not  have  got  one,  and  that 
Lillyston  should,  were  facts  perfectly  amazing  to  all 
who  heard  them.  St.  Werner's  was  full  of  surprise. 
But,  after  all,  they  might  have  expected  it;  Kennedy 
had  been  grossly  idle,  and  Lillyston,  Avho  had  been  ex- 
ceedingly industrious,  was  not  only  well  grounded  at 
Harton  in  classics,  but  had  recently  developed  a  real 
and  promising  proficiency  in  mathematics ;  and  it  was 
this  knowledge,  joined  to  great  good  fortune  in  the 
examination,  which  had  won  for  him  the  much-  envied 
success. 

But  not  Kennedy  ? 

No  !  This  result  was  enough  most  seriously  to  damp 
the  intense  delight  which  Julian  otherwise  felt  in  hia 
own  success,  and  that  of  his  three  friends. 

Julian,  half  expecting  that  he  would  be  successful, 
had  come  up  with  Owen  early  in  the  day,  and  received 
the  news  from  the  porter  as  he  entered  the  college. 
Kemiedy  and  Lillyston  were  not  yet  arrived,  and  Julian 
went  to  meet  the  coach  from  Roysley,  hoping  to  see  one 
of  them  at  least ;  for  he  was  almost  as  anxious  ti  break 
the  disappointment  gently  to  Kennedy,  as  he  was  to 
be  the  first  to  bear  to  his  oldest  school  friend  the  sur- 
prising and  delightful  news  of  his  success. 

They  were  both  in   the  coach,  and  Julian  was  quit^ 


TEARS.  33H 

puzzled  how  to  meet  them.  His  vexation  and  delight 
alternated  so  rapidly  as  he  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  that  he  felt  exceedingly  awkward,  and  would 
very  much  have  preferred  seeing  either  of  them  alone. 
Lillyston  was  incredulous ;  he  insisted  that  there  must 
be  some  mistake,  until  he  actually  saw  the  list  with 
his  own  eyes.  It  was  quite  by  accident,  and  not  with 
any  view  of  being  sworn  in  as  a  scholar  the  next 
morning,  that  he  had  returned  to  St.  Werner's  on 
that  day  at  all.  Kennedy  bore  the  bitter  but  not 
unexpected  disappointment  with  silent  stoicism,  and 
Bhowed  an  unaffected  joy  at  the  happy  result  which 
had  crowned  the  honest  exertions  of  his  best-loved 
friends. 

He  bore  it  in  stoical  silence,  until  he  reached  his 
own  rooms ;  and  then  do  not  blame  him- — my  poor 
Kennedy ! — if  he  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and 
cried  like  a  little  child.  There  are  times  when  the 
bravest  man  feels  quite  like  a  boy — feels  as  if  he 
were  unchanged  since  the  day  when  he  sorrowed  for 
boyish  trespasses,  and  was  chidden  for  boyish  faults. 
Kennedy  was  very  young,  and  he  was  eating  the  fruits 
of  folly  and  idleness  in  painful  failure  and  hope  de- 
ferred. In  public,  he  never  showed  the  faintest  signs 
of  vexation,  but  in  the  loneliness  of  his  closet,  do  not 
blame  him  if  he  wept — for  Violet's  sake  as  well  as  for 
his  own. 

So  once  more  he  was  separated  from  Julian  and 
Lillyston  in  hall  and  chapel,  for  they  now  sat  at  the 
scholars'  table  and  in  the  scholars'  seats. 

He  was  beginning  to  get  over  his  feeling  of  sorro\1 
when  he  received  a  letter,  which  did  not  need  the  coro 


340  FROM    DE   VAYNE 

net  on  the  seal  to  show  him  that  his  correspondent  was 
De  Vayne.  He  opened  it  with  eagerness  and  curiosity, 
and  read : — 

"  Eaglestower,  April  30,  18 — .  ArgylesMre. 

"  My  dear  Kennedy — How  long  it  is  since  we  saw 
or  heard  of  each  other  !  I  am  getting  well  now,  slowly 
but  surely,  but  as  I  am  amusing  my  leisure  by  reviving 
my  old  correspondence  with  my  friends,  let  me  write  to 
you,  whom  I  reckon  and  shall  ever  reckon  among  that 
honored  number. 

"I  am  afraid  that  you  consider  me  to  have  been 
slightly  alienated  from  you  by  the  sad  scene  which 
your  rooms  witnessed  when  last  we  met  in  health,  and 
by  the  connection  into  which  your  name  was  dragged, 
by  popular  rumor,  with  that  unhappy  affair.  If  such 
a  thought  has  ever  troubled  you,  let  me  pray  that 
you  will  banish  it.  I  have  long  since  been  sure  that 
you  would  have  been  ready  to  suffer  any  calamity 
rather  than  expose  me  to  the  foreseen  possibility  of 
such  an  outrage. 

"  No,  believe  me,  dear  Kennedy,  I  am  as  much  now 
as  I  always  have  been  since  I  knew  you,  your  sincere 
and  affectionate  friend.  Nor  will  I  conceal  how  deep 
an  interest  another  circumstance  has  given  me  in  your 
welfare.  You,  perhaps,  did  not  know  that  I,  too, 
loved  your  aflfianced  Violet ;  how  long,  how  deeply,  1 
oan  never  utter  to  any  living  soul.  I  did  not  know 
that  you  had  won  her  affections,  and  the  informa- 
tion that  such  was  the  case  came  on  me  like  the 
ieath-knell  of  all  my  cherished  hopes.  But  I  have 
schooled  myself   now    to  the  calm    contemplation  oi 


DE  vayne's  letter.  341 

mj  failure,  and  I  can  rejoice  -without  envy  in  the 
knowledge  that  in  you  she  has  won  a  lover  richly  en- 
dowed with  all  the  qualities  on  which  future  happiness 
can  depend. 

"  I  write  to  you  partly  to  say  good-hy.  In  a  fort- 
night I  am  going  abroad,  and  shall  not  return  until  I 
feel  that  I  have  conquered  a  hopeless  passion  and  re- 
gained a  shattered  health.  Farewell  to  dear  old  Cam- 
ford  !  I  little  thought  that  my  career  there  would 
terminate  as  it  did,  but  I  trust  in  the  full  persuasion 
that  God  worketh  all  things  for  good  to  them  who 
love  Him. 

"  Once  more,  good-by !  When  I  return,  I  hope  that 
I  shall  see  leaning  on  your  arm  a  fair,  a  divine  young 
bride.     Ever  affectionately  yours, 

"De  Vayne." 

Kennedy  had  written  home  to  announce  that  his 
name  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  list  of  St.  Werner's 
scholars.  The  information  had  disgusted  his  father 
exceedingly.  Mr.  Kennedy,  himself  an  old  Wernerian, 
loved  that  royal  foundation  with  an  unchanging  re- 
gard ;  and  ever  since  the  day  that  Edward  had  been 
playing  in  his  hall  a  pretty  boy,  he  determined  that 
he  should  be  a  St.  Werner's  scholar  at  his  first  trial. 
He  knew  his  son's  abilities,  and  felt  convinced  that 
there  must  be  some  radical  fault  in  his  Camford  life, 
to  produce  such  a  disastrous  series  of  failures  and 
disgraces.  Unable  to  gain  any  real  information  on 
the  subject  from  Edward's  letters,  he  determined  to 
write  up  at  once,  and  ask  the  classical  and  mathe< 
matical  tutors  the   points  in  which   his  son  was  most 

29* 


842  "  GENIUS    IS    PATIENCE 


»» 


deficient,   and    the   reason    of    his   continued  want  of 

Buccess. 

The  classical  tutor,  Mr.  Dalton,  wrote  back  that 
Kennedy's  failure  was  due  solely  to  idleness;  that 
nis  abilities  were  acknowledged  to  be  brilliant,  but 
that  at  Camford,  as  everywhere  else,  the  notion  of 
success  without  industry*  was  a  chimera  invented  by 
b  jastfulness  and  conceit.    '''  Le  Gdnie  c'est  la  Patience." 

"You  seem,  however,"  continued  Mr.  Dalton,  "to 
be  under  the  mistaken  impression  that  your  son  read 
with  me  the  last  term,  and  even  '  read  double.'  This  is 
not  the  case,  as  he  has  ceased  to  read  Avith  me  since 
the  end  of  the  Christmas  terra:  I  was  sorry  that  he 
did  so  ;  for,  if  economy  was  an  object,  I  would  gladly, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  the  interest  I  take  in  him,  have 
afforded  gratuitous  assistance  to  so  clever  and  prom- 
ising a  pupil." 

The  letter  of  Mr.  Baer,  the  mathematical  tutor,  was 
precisely  to  the  same  effect.  "  I  can  only  speak,"  he 
said,  "  from  what  I  observed  of  your  son  previous  to 
last  Christmas  ;  since  then  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure 
of  numbering  him  among  my  pupils." 

When  Mr.  Dalton's  letter  came,  Mr.  Kennedy  was 
exceedingly  perplexed  to  understand  what  it  meant, 
and  assumed  that  there  must  be  some  unaccountable 
mistake.  He  simply  could  not  believe  that  his  son 
could  have  asked  him  for  the  money  on  false  pretenses. 
But  Avhen  Mr.  Baer's  letter  confirmed  the  fact  that 
Kenn'Mly  had  not  been  reading  with  a  tutor,  either  in 
classics  or  mathematics  during  the  previous  quarter,  it 
seemed  impossible  for  any  one  any  longer  to  shut  his 
eyes  to  the  truth. 


DISCOVERIES.  ;Ub 

When  tlie  real  state  of  the  case  forced  itself  on 
Mr.  Kennedy's  conviction,  his  affliction  was  so  deep, 
that  no  language  can  adequately  describe  what  he 
BuflFered.  In  a  few  days  his  countenance  became  een- 
Hibly  older  looking,  and  his  hair  more  gray.  His 
favorite  and  only  surviving  son  had  proved  unworthy 
and  base.  Not  only  had  he  wasted  time  in  frivolous 
company,  but,  clearly,  he  must  have  sunk  very  low 
to  be  guilty  of  a  crime  so  heinous  in  itself,  and  so 
peculiarly  wounding  to  a  father's  heart,  as  the  one 
which  it  was  plain  that  he  had  committed. 

At  first,  Mr.  Kennedy  could  not  trust  himself  to 
write,  lest  the  anger  and  indignation  which  usurped 
the  place  of  sorrow  should  lead  him  into  a  violence 
which  might  produce  irreparable  harm.  Meanwhile 
he  bore  in  silence  the  blows  which  had  fallen.  Not 
even  to  his  daughter  Eva  did  he  reveal  the  over- 
whelming secret  of  her  brother's  shame,  but  brooded 
in  loneliness  over  the  fair  promise  of  the  past,  blighted 
utterly  in  the  disgrace  of  the  present.  Often,  when 
he  had  looked  at  his  young  son,  and  seen  how  glorious 
and  how  happy  his  life  might  be,  he  had  determined 
to  shelter  him  from  all  evil,  and  endow  him  with 
means  and  opportunities  for  every  success.  He  had 
looked  to  him  as  a  pride  and  stay  in  declining  man- 
hood, and  a  comfort  in  old  age.  Edward  Kennedy 
had  been  "  a   child  whom  every  eye  that    looked  on 

loved,"  and   now  he  was Mr.  Kennedy  could  not 

apply  to  him  the  only  name  which  at  once  sprung  up 
to  his  lips.      He  va-ote — 

"  Dear  Edward — When  I  tell  you  that  it  cost  me 


844  MR.  Kennedy's  letter. 

an  effort,  a  strong  effort  to  call  you  'dear,'  you  m^-^ 
judge  of  the  depth  of  my  anger.  I  cannot  trust  mysejf, 
nor  will  I  condescend  to  say  much  to  you.  '  SuflBce  it 
for  you  to  know  that  your  shameful  transactions  aro 
detected,  and  that  I  am  now  aware  of  the  means,  the 
treacherous,  dishonest  means,  you  have  adopted  to  pro- 
cure money,  which,  since  I  give  you  an  ample  and 
liberal  allowance,  can  only  be  wanted  to  pander  to  vice, 
idleness,  and  I  know  not  what  other  forms  of  sin. 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not  know  what  to  say ;  if  you 
can  act  as  you  have  acted,  you  must  be  quite  deaf  to 
expostulation,  and  dead  to  shame.  You  have  done  all 
you  can  to  cover  me  and  yourself  with  dishonor,  and 
to  bring  down  my  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave 

"  Oh  Edward,  Edward  !  if  I  could  have  foreseen  thia 
in  the  days  when  you  were  yet  a  young  and  innocent 
and  happy  boy,  I  would  have  chosen  rather  that  you 
should  die. 

"  It  must  be  a  long  time  before  you  see  my  face 
again.  I  will  not  see  you  in  the  coming  holidays,  and 
I  at  once  reduce  your  allowance  to  half  of  what  it  was. 
[  cannot,  and  will  not  supply  money  to  be  wasted  in 
extravagance  and  folly,  nor  shall  I  again  be  deceived 
into  granting  it  to  you  on  false  pretenses. 

"  Your  indignant,  deeply-sorrowing  father, 

"  T.  Kennedy." 

Kennedy  read  the  letter,  and  reread  it,  and  laid 
it  down  on  the  table  beside  his  untouched  breakfast. 
There  was  but  one  expression  in  his  face,  and  that  waa 
misery,  and  in  his  soul  no  other  feeling  than  that  of 
hopeless  shame. 


"HAST   TIIOU   FOUND   ME,  0   MIXE   ENEMY?"      345 

He  did  not,  and  could  not  write  to  his  father.  What 
9Fas  to  be  said  ?  He  must  bear  his  burden — the  burden 
of  detection  and  of  punishment — alone. 

And  the  thought  of  Violet  added  keener  poignancy 
to  all  his  grief.  For  Kennedy  could  not  but  observe 
that  her  letters  were  not  so  fondly,  passionately  loving 
as  they  once  had  been,  and  he  knew  that  the  fault  was 
his,  because  his  own  letters  reflected,  like  a  broker 
mirror,  the  troubled  images  of  his  wandering  heart. 


CHAPTEK  XXVIII 
Kennedy's    despair. 

"When  all  the  blandishments  from  life  are  gone, 
The  coward  slinks  to  death ; — the  brave  live  on  l" 

Of  all  the  sicknesses  that  can  happen  to  the  human 
soul,  the  deadliest  and  the  most  incurable  is  the  feeling 
of  despair — and  this  was  the  malady  which  now  infected 
every  vein  of  Kennedy's  moral  and  intellectual  life. 

Could  he  but  have  conquered  his  pride  so  far  as  to 
take  but  one  person  into  his  confidence,  all  miglit  have 
been  well.  But  Violet — could  he  ever  tell  Violet  of 
sins  which  her  noble  heart  must  render  so  inconceivable 
as  almost  to  make  it  impossible  for  her  to  sympathize 
with  one  who  committed  them  ?  And  Eva — could  he 
ever  wound  the  tender  affection  of  his  sweet  sister,  by 
revealing  to  her  the  disgrace  of  the  brother  whom,  from 
her  childhood,  she  had  idolized?  He  sometimes  thought 
that  he  would  confess  to  Julian  or  Lillyston  ;  but  his 
courage  failed  him  when  the  time  came,  and  he  fed  on 
his  own  heart  in  solitude,  avoiding  the  society  of  men. 

The  sore  burden  of  a  self  reproaching  spirit  wore 
him  down.  He  had  fallen  so  often  now,  and  swerved 
BO  often  from  the  path  of  temperance,  rectitude,  and 
honor,  that  he  began  to  regard  himself  as  a  hopeless 
reprobate — as  one  who  had  been  weighed  and  found 
wanting — tested  of  God,  and  deliberately  set  aside. 
(346^ 


ADOKIMOS.  347 

Aud  so  step  by  step  the  devil  thrust  hiin  into  despera- 
tion, and  strove  thereby?  to  clinch  the  hopelessness  of 
his  estate.  With  wild  fierce  passion  Kennedy  flung 
himself  into  sins  he  had  never  known  before ;  angrily 
he  laid  waste  the  beauty  and  glory  of  the  vineyard 
whose  hedge  had  been  broken  down  ;  a  little  entrance 
to  the  sanctuary  had  been  opened  to  evil  thoughts, 
and  they,  when  once  admitted,  soon  flung  back  wider 
and  wider  the  golden  gates,  till  the  reveling  band  of 
worse  wickedness  rushed  in  and  defiled  the  altar,  and 
trampled  on  the  virgin  floors,  and  defiiced  the  cedarn 
walls  with  images  of  idolatry  and  picturings  of  sin. 
Because  he  had  sunk  into  the  slough  of  despond,  he 
would  be  heedless  of  the  mud  that  gathered  on  his  gar- 
ments. Was  he  not  ruined  already  ?  could  anything 
much  worse  befall  him  than  had  befallen  him  already  ? 
No ;  he  would  sin  on  now  and  take  his  fill. 

It  was  a  short  period  of  his  life ;  but  in  no  other 
period  did  he  suffer  so  much,  or  shake  more  fatally  the 
foundations  of  all  future  happiness.  It  was  emphatically 
a  sin  against  his  own  soul,  and  as  such  it  affected  his 
very  look.  Those  blue  laughing  eyes  were  clouded 
over,  and  the  bloom  died  away  from  his  cheeks,  and 
the  ingenuous  beauty  from  his  countenance,  as  the  light 
of  the  Shekinah  grew  pale  and  dim  in  the  inmost 
sanctuary.  Kennedy  was  not  mastered  by  impulse, 
bnt  driven  by  despair. 

Nor  did  he  take  any  precaution  to  shield   himself 
from  punishment — the  punishment  of  outward  circum 
stance  ana  Batural  consequence — as  his  moral  abase- 
ment proceeded.     His  acquaintances  shunned  him,  hia 
friends  dropped  away  from  him,  and  the  guiltiness  of 


348  LOWER   AND 

the  present  received  a  tinge  of  deeper  horror  from  the 
gloom  of  the  future. 

All  that  could  be  done,  Julian  did.  He  warned,  h^ 
expostulated,  he  reminded  of  purer  and  happier — cf 
pure  and  happy  days.  But  he  did  not  know  the  bitter 
fountain  of  despondency  whence  flowed  those  naphtha- 
like streams  of  passion.     At  last  he  said, — 

"  Kennedy,  I  have  not  often  spoken  to  you  of  my 
dear  sister ;  it  is  time  to  speak  of  her  now.  Your 
conduct  proves  to  me  that  you  do  net  and  cannot 
love  her." 

Kennedy  listened  in  silence ;  his  face  bowed  down 
upon  his  hands.  "  You  could  not  go  on  as  you  are 
doing  if  you  loved  her,  for  love  allows  no  meaner,  no 
unhallowed  fires  to  pollute  her  vestal  flame.  Your  love 
must  be  a  pretense — a  thing  of  the  past.  It  was  only 
possible,  Kennedy,  when  you  were  worthier  than  now 
you  are." 

He  groaned  deeply,  but  still  said  nothing. 

"Kennedy,"  continued  Julian,  "I  have  loved  you 
as  a  friend,  as  a  brother ;  I  love  you  still  most  earnestly, 
and  you  must  not  be  too  much  pained  at  what  I  say ; 
but  I  have  come  to  a  determination  which  I  must  tell 
you,  and  by  which  I  must  abide.  Your  engagement 
with  Violet  must  cease." 

"Does  SHE  say  so?"  he  asked,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"  No,  she  does  not  know,  Kennedy,  what  I  know  of 
you ;  but  she  will  trust  my  deep  aff"ection,  and  know 
that  I  act  solely  for  her  good.  The  blow  may  almost 
kill  her,  but  better  that  she  should  die  than  that  her 
life  should  be  ever  connected — oh  that  you  should  have 
driven  me  to  say  it — with  one  so  stained  as  yours  I 


LOWEK.  349 

"Ay!"  said  Kennedy,  bitterly,  "stub  bard,  for  the 
Knife  is  in  your  band.  Fling  dust  on  tbose  wbo  are 
down  already — it  is  the  world's  way.  I  see  through  it 
alb,  Julian  Home  ;  you  would  gladly  get  rid  of  me,  that 
Violet  may  wear  a  coronet.  No  comparison  between 
a  penniless  and  ruined  undergraduate,  and  a  handsome, 
rich  young  viscount." 

"Unjust,  ungenerous!"  answered  Julian,  with  in- 
dignation; "you  have  poisoned  your  own  true  heart, 
Kennedy,  or  you  would  not  utter  the  lie  which  you 
must  disbelieve.  Edward  Kennedy,  I  will  not  attempt 
to  rebut  your  unworthy  suspicions ;  you  know  neither 
my  character  nor  Violet's,  or  you  would  not  have  dared 
to  utter  them.  No — it  is  clearer  to  me  than  ever  that 
you  are  no  fit  suitor  for  my  sister.  Passion  and  weak- 
ness have  dragged  you  very  low.  I  trust  and  pray  that 
you  may  recover  yourself  again." 

A  sudden  rush  of  tears  came  to  his  eyes  as  he  turned 
away  to  leave  his  earliest  and  best  loved  college  friend. 
But  Kennedy  stopped  him,  and  said  wildly, — 

"  Stop,  Julian  Home,  you  shall  hear  me  speak  !  I 
can  hardly  believe  that  you  do  this  of  your  own  re- 
sponsibility— without  Violet's — nay,  nay,  I  must  not 
call  her  so — without  your  sister's  consent.  And  if  this 
be  so,  hear  me.  Tell  her  that  I  scorn  the  heart  which 
would  thus  fling  away  its  plighted  love :  tell  her  that 
she  has  committed  a  great  sin  in  thus  rejecting  me ; 
tell  her  that  she  is  now  responsible  for  all  my  future, — 
that  whatever  errors  I  may  fall  into,  whatever  sins  I 
may  commit,  whatever  disgrace  or  ruin  I  may  incur, 
%he  is  the  author  of  them.  Tell  her  that  if  I  ever 
kive  to  do  ungenerous  acts,  or  ever  yield  to  bursts  0/ 

30 


350  ^u}va.i>Ta  ffuveru'tai. 

foolish  passion,  the  acts  arc  hers,  not  mine ;  she  will 
have  caused  them  ;  my  life  lies  at  her  feet.  Tell  hei 
this  before  it  is  too  late.  What !  you  still  Avish  to  hurry 
away?  Go  then."  He  almost  pushed  Julian  out,  and 
banged  the  door  after  him. 

Amazed  at  this  paroxysm  of  wrath  and  madnes?, 
Julian  went  down  stairs  with  a  slow  step  and  a 
heavy  heart ;  above  all,  he  dreaded  the  necessity  of 
breaking  to  Violet  the  heart-rending  intelligence  of  his 
decision,  and  the  circumstances  which  caused  it.  He 
trembled  to  do  it,  for  he  knew  not  how  crushing  the 
weight  might  prove.  At  last  he  determined  to  write  to 
his  mother,  and  to  beg  her  to  bear  for  him  the  pain  of 
telling  that  which  her  womanly  tact  and  maternal 
sympathy  might  make  less  overwhelming  to  be  borne. 

But  Kennedy,  after  Julian's  words,  rushed  out  of 
his  rooms,  and  it  was  night.  He  left  the  college,  and 
wandered  into  the  fields — he  knew  not  whither,  nor 
with  what  intent.  His  brain  was  on  fire.  The  last 
gleam  that  lent  brightness  to  his  life  had  been  ex- 
tinguished ;  the  friend  whom  he  loved  best  had  cast  him 
off;  his  name  was  sullied;  his  love  rejected.  It  was 
not  thought  which  kept  him  in  a  tumult,  but  only  a 
physical  consciousness  of  dreadful,  irremediable  ca- 
lamity; and  but  for  the  wind  which  blew  so  coldly  and 
savagely  in  his  face,  and  the  rain  that  soaked  his 
clothes  and  cooled  the  fever  of  his  forehead,  he  feared 
that  he  might  go  mad. 

He  did  not  return  to  the  college  till  long  past  mid- 
night ;  and  the  old  porter,  as  he  got  out  of  bed  to 
open  the  gate,  could  not  help  saying  to  him  in  a  tone 
of  reproach, — 


MIDNIGHT    WANDERING.  353 

"  Oh  Mr.  Kennedy,  sir — excuse  me,  sir —  but  these 
are  bad  v/ays." 

The  words  were  lost  upon  him  :  he  went  up  to  hia 
room,  and  threw  himself,  without  taking  off  his  cloth«!S, 
upon  his  bed.  No  sleep  came  to  him,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing— damp,  weary,  and  feverish  as  he  had  been — hia 
look  was  inexpressibly  pitiable  and  haggard. 

The  imperious  demands  of  health  forced  him  to  take 
some  notice  of  his  condition ;  and  he  was  about  to  put 
on  clean  clothes,  and  take  some  warm  tea  about  ten  in 
the  morning,  when  the  master's  servant  came  to  tell 
him  that  the  seniority  desired  his  presence. 

He  at  once  knew  that  it  must  be  for  his  irregularity 
of  the  previous  night,  which,  in  the  agitation  of  other 
thoughts,  had  not  occurred  to  him  before.  He  remem- 
bered, too,  that  the  senior  dean  had  only  recently 
threatened  him  that,  in  consequence  of  his  late  mis- 
doings, the  next  offense  would  be  visited  with  summary 
and  final  punishment. 

Kennedy  received  rather  hard  treatment  at  the  hand 
of  the  senior  dean,  who  was  a  very  worthy  and  excel- 
lent man,  but  so  firm  and  punctilious  that  he  could 
neither  conceive  nor  tolerate  the  existence  of  beings 
less  precise  in  their  nature  than  himself.  Kind  and 
well  intentioned,  he  was  utterly  unfit  for  the  guidance 
of  young  men,  because  he  was  totally  deficient  in  those 
invaluable  qualities — sympathy  and  tact.  He  had  early 
taken  a  dislike  to  Kennedy,  in  consequence  of  some 
very  harmless  frivolities  of  his  freshman's  year.  Ken- 
nedy, in  his  frolicsome  and  happy  moods,  had,  in  ways 
childish  perhaps,  but  completely  harmless,  offended  the 
sensitive  dignity  of  the  college  official,  and  these  trivial 


352  SENIOR    DEANS. 

eccentricities  the  dean  regarded  as  heinous  faults —  the 
Bymptoms  of  a  reckless  and  irreverent  character.  There 
was  one  particular  transaction  which  gave  him  more 
thsn  usual  offense,  in  which  Kennedy,  hearing  a  very 
absurd  story  at  a  don's  party,  while  the  dean  was  pres- 
ent, parodied  it  with  such  exquisite  humor  and  such 
complete  command  of  countenance,  that  all  the  other 
men,  in  spite  of  the  official  presence,  had  indecorously 
broken  into  fits  of  laughter.  It  is  a  great  pity  when 
rulers  and  teachers  take  such  terrible  fright  at  little 
outbreaks  of  mere  animal  and  boyish  spirits. 

The  dean  was  inclined,  therefore,  from  the  first  to 
take  the  most  serious  view  of  Kennedy's  proceedings, 
even  when  they  were  not  as  questionable  as  recently 
they  had  been.  Instead  of  trying  to  enter  into  a  young 
man's  feelings  and  temptations  with  consideration  and 
forbearance,  the  dean  regarded  them  from  a  moral 
watchtower  of  unapproachable  altitude,  and  hence  to 
him  the  errors  which  he  was  sometimes  obliged  to 
punish  were  not  regarded  as  human  failings,  but  as 
monstrous  and  inexplicable  phenomena.  He  could  not 
in  the  least  understand  Kennedy ;  he  only  looked  at 
him  as  a  wild,  and  objectionable,  and  irregular  young 
man  ;  while  Kennedy  reciprocated  his  pity  by  a  hardly 
concealed  contempt. 

So,  as  Kennedy  took  cap  and  gown,  and  walked 
across  the  court  to  the  combination-room,  he  became 
pretty  well  aware  that  a  very  heavy  sentence  was 
hanging  over  his  head.  He  cared  little  for  it ;  nothing 
J:hat  St.  Werner's  or  its  authorities  could  do  would 
wound  him  half  so  deeply  as  what  he  was  already  suf 


IN    A    DREAM.  35b 

fering,  or  cause  the  iron  to  rankle  more  painfully  in 
his  soul.     He  felt  as  a  man  who  is  in  a  dream. 

He  stood  before  them  with  a  look  of  utter  vacancj 
and  listlessness,  the  result  partly  of  physical  weariness, 
partly  of  complete  indifference.  He  was  aware  that 
the  dean,  undisturbed  this  time,  was  haranguing  him 
to  his  heart's  content,  but  he  had  very  little  notion  of 
what  he  was  saying.  At  last  his  ear  caught  the  ques- 
tion— "  Have  you  any  explanation  to  offer  of  your 
conduct,  Mr.  Kennedy  ?" 

He  betrayed  how  little  he  had  been  attending  by  the 
reply — "  What  conduct,  sir  ?" 

The  dean  ruffled  his  plumage,  and  said  with  aspei'ity 
— "Your  conduct  last  night,  sir." 

"  I  was  wandering  in  the  fields,  sir." 

"  Wandering  in  the  fields  !"  In  the  dean's  formal 
and  regular  mind  such  a  proceeding  was  wholly  unin- 
telligible; fancy  a  sensible  member  of  a  college  wan- 
dering in  the  fields  on  a  wet  stormy  night  past  twelve 
o'clock  !  "  Really,  Mr.  Kennedy,  you  must  excuse 
us,  but  we  can  hardly  accept  so  fantastic  an  explana- 
tion ;  we  can  hardly  believe  that  you  had  no  ulterloi 
designs." 

Kennedy  was  bothered  and  fretful ;  he  was  not 
thinking  of  deans  or  seniors  just  then ;  his  thoughta 
were  reverting  to  his  father's  implacable  anger,  and  to 
Julian's  forbidding  him  to  hope  for  the  love  of  Violet 
Home.  Weary  of  the  talking,  and  careless  of  explain- 
ing anything  to  them,  and  with  a  short  return  of  his 
old  contempt,  he  wished  to  cut  short  the  discussion, 
ftud  merely  said, — 

"  I  can't  help  what  you  accept  or  what  you  believe." 

30* 


ii54  RUSTICATION. 

The  seniors  had  a  little  discussion  among  theniselveSj 
m  which  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Norton  appeared  to  be 
overborne  by  the  majority  of  votes,  and  then  the  senior 
dean  said  shortly, — 

"Mr.  Kennedy,  we  have  come  to  the  decision  that 
it  is  undesirable  for  you  to  remain  at  St.  Werner's  at 
present,  until  you  have  mended  your  ways,  and  taken  a 
different  view  of  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  college 
life.  You  are  rusticated  for  a  year.  You  must  leave 
to-morrow." 

Kennedy  bowed  and  left  the  room.  He,  too,  had 
been  coming  to  a  decision,  and  one  that  rendered  all 
minor  ones  a  matter  of  no  consequence  to  him.  During 
all  the  wet,  and  feverish,  and  sleepless  night  be  had 
been  determining  what  to  do,  and  the  event  of  this 
morning  confirmed  him  still  further.  He  was  rusticated 
for  a  year ;  where  could  he  go  ?  Not  to  his  father 
and  his  home,  where  every  eye  would  look  on  him  as  a 
disgraced  and  characterless  man ;  not  to  any  of  his  re- 
lations or  friends,  who  would  regard  him  perhaps  as  a 
shame  and  burden ;  no,  there  was  but  one  home  for 
him,  and  that  was  the  long  home,  undisturbed  beneath 
the  covering  of  the  grave. 

The  burden  and  mystery  of  life  lay  heavily  on  him 
— its  lasting  calamities  and  vanishing  joys,  its  trials  and 
disappointments.  He  would  try  whether,  in  a  new  state 
of  life,  the  same  distorted  individuality  was  a  necessary 
possession.  Would  it  be  necessary  there  also  to  live 
two  lives  in  one,  to  have  a  soul,  within  whose  precincts 
curse  wrested  with  blessing,  good  with  evil,  and  life 
with  death  ?  As  life  went  with  him  then,  he  would 
rather  escape  from  it  even  into  annihilation  ;  he  groaned 


ETERNAL   INDIVIDUALITY.  355 

nnder  it,  and  in  spite  of  all  he  had  heard  or  read,  he 
had  no  fear  whatever  of  the  after-death.  If  he  had 
any  feeling  about  that,  it  was  a  feeling  of  curiosity 
alone.  He  could  not  wholly  condemn  himself:  he  felt 
that  however  much  evil  might  have  mastered  him,  good 
was  the  truest  and  most  distinctive  element  of  his  bein?. 
He  loved  it  even  when  he  abandoned  it,  and  yielded 
himself  to  sin.  He  could  not  believe  that  for  these 
frailities  he  would  be  driven  into  an  existence  of 
unmitigated  pain. 

He  had  no  fear,  no  shadow  of  fear  of  the  state  of 
death,  for  he  forgot  that  he  Avould  carry  himself,  his 
unchanged  being — conscience,  habit,  and  memory — into 
the  other  world.  What  he  dreaded  was  the  spasm  of 
dying — the  convulsion  that  was  to  snap  the  thousand 
silver  strings  in  the  harp  of  life.  This  he  shuddered 
at,  but  he  consoled  himself  that  it  would  be  over  in  a 
moment. 

He  took  no  food  that  day,  but  wrote  to  his  father, 
to  Eva,  to  Julian,  Violet,  and  De  Vayne.  He  told 
them  his  purpose,  and  prayed  their  forgiveness  for  all 
the  wrongs  he  had  done  them.  And  then  there  seemed 
no  more  to  do.  With  weak  unsteady  steps  he  paced 
his  room,  and  looked  at  the  old  Swiss  chamois-aun 
above  the  door.  He  took  it  down  and  handled  it. 
It  was  a  coarse  clumsy  weapon,  and  he  could  not  trust 
it  to  effect  his  purpose.  Shunning  observation,  he 
walked  by  back  streets  and  passages  until  he  came  to  a 
gunsmith's  shop,  where  he  bought  a  large  pistol,  under 
pretense  of  wanting  it  for  the  purposes  of  travel. 

He  carried  it  home  himself,  but,  instead  of  return- 
ing straight   to  his  rooms,  he  was  tempted  to  stroll  for 


356  STANDING    IN    THE   WAY. 

I  last  time  about  the  grounds.  The  delightful  softness 
of  the  darkening  air  on  that  spring  evening,  and  the 
cheerful  gleam  of  lamps  leaping  up  here  and  there 
between  the  trees,  and  flickering  on  the  quiet  river, 
enticed  him  up  the  glorious  old  intwined  avenue  into  the 
shadow  of  the  great  oaks  beyond,  until  he  found  him- 
self leaning  between  the  weeping  willows  over  the  bridge 
of  Merham  Hall,  looking  on  the  still  gray  poetic  towers, 
and  the  three  motionless  reposing  swans,  and  the  gloam- 
ing of  the  west.  And  so,  still  thinking,  thinking,  think- 
ing, he  slowly  wandered  home. 

As  he  had  determined  to  commit  suicide  that  night, 
it  mattered  little  to  him  at  what  hour  it  was  done;  and, 
opening  the  first  book  on  the  table,  he  tried  to  kill  time 
until  it  grew  later  and  darker.  The  book  happened  to  be 
a  Bible,  and,  conscious  how  much  it  jarred  with  his  pres- 
ent frame  of  mind  and  his  guilty  purpose,  he  threw  it 
down  again ;  but  not  until  his  eye  liad  caugJit  the  words: 

"And  he  saw  the  angel  of  the  lord  standing 

IN    the  way." 

The  verse  haunted  him  against  his  will,  till  he  half 
shuddered  at  the  dim  light  which  the  moon  made,  as 
it  struggled  through  the  curtains  only  partially  drawn, 
into  the  quaint  old  room.  He  would  delay  no  longer, 
and  loaded  the  pistol  with  a  dreadful  charge,  which 
should  not  fail  of  carrying  death. 

Some  fancy  seized  him  to  put  out  the  lights,  and  then, 
with  a  violent  throbbing  at  the  heart,  and  a  wild  prayer 
for  God's  mercy  at  that  terrible  hour,  he  took  the  pistol 
in  his  hand. 

At  that  very  instant, — when  there  was  hardly  the 
motion  of  a  hair's  breadth  between  him  and  his  fate, — 


THE    DISCHARGE.  057 

what  was  it  that  startled  his  attention,  and  caused  his 
hand  to  drop,  and  fixed  him  there  with  open  mouth  and 
wild  gaze,  and  caused  him  to  shiver  like  the  leaves  of 
the  acacia  in  a  summer  wind  ? 

Right  before  him — half  hidden  by  the  window  cur- 
tains, and  half  drawing  them  back — clear  and  distinct, 
he  saw  the  spi^'t  of  his  dead  mother  with  uplifted  finger 
and  sad  reproachful  eyes  fixed  upon  her  son.  The 
countenance  so  sorrowfully  beautiful,  the  long  bright 
gleaming  of  the  white  robe,  the  tresses  floating  down 
over  the  shoulders  like  a  golden  vail,  for  one  instant  he 
saw  them,  not  dim  and  shadowy,  like  the  fading  out- 
lines of  a  dream,  but  with  all  the  marked  full  char- 
acter of  living  vision. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother!"  he  whispered,  as  he 
stretched  out  his  hands,  and  sank  trembling  upon 
his  knees,  and  bowed  his  head  ;  but,  as  he  raised  his 
head  again,  there  was  nothing  there  ;  only  the  glimmer 
of  lamps  about  the  court,  and  the  pale  moonlight 
streaming  through  the  curtains  into  the  room. 

Unable  to  trust  himself  with  the  murderous  weapon 
in  his  hand  even  for  a  moment,  yet  swept  from  hia 
evil  purpose  by  the  violent  reflux  of  new  and  better 
thoughts,  he  fired  the  pistol  into  the  air.  The  barrel, 
enormously  overloaded,  burst  in  the  discharge,  and, 
uttering  a  cry,  he  fell  fainting,  with  his  right  hand 
shattered,  to  the  ground. 

His  cry  and  the  loud  report  of  the  explosion  raised 
the  alarm,  and  as  the  men  rushed  up  and  forced  open 
the  door  of  his  room,  they  found  him  weltering  m  his 
blood  upon  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

EVA     ENTERS     THE     CHAPEL. 

'•  I  took  it  for  a  fairy  vision 
Of  some  liriglit  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live 
And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds;  I  was  awo-struck, 
And,  as  I  passed,  I  worshiped." — Comus. 

The  long,  long  illness  that  followed,  and  the  weary 
time  which  it  took  to  heal  the  mutilated  hand,  proved 
the  greatest  blessings  that  could  have  befallen  the 
weak  and  erring  heart  of  Edward  Kennedy.  They 
spared  hira  the  necessity  of  that  heart-rending  meeting 
with  those  whom  he  best  loved,  the  dread  of  which  had 
the  most  powerful  incitement  to  urge  upon  him  the 
thought  of  suicide.  They  gave  him  time  to  look  before 
and  after  —  they  relieved  the  painful  tension  of  his 
overwrought  mind — they  calmed  him  with  the  neces- 
sity for  quiet  thought  and  deep  rest,  after  the  anguish 
and  turmoil  of  the  bygone  months. 

When  he  awoke  to  consciousness,  Eva  was  sitting 
by  his  bedside  in  the  sick-room.  Slowly  the  well- 
remembered  objects  and  the  beloved  face  broke  upon 
his  recollection,  but  at  first  he  could  remember  nothing 
more,  nor  connect  the  strange  present  with  the  excited 
past.  Still  more  slowly  —  as  Avhen  one  breaks  the 
azure  sleep  of  some  unruffled  mountain  mere  by  the 
skimming  of  a  stone,  and  for  a  long  time  the  clea.i 
(358\ 


THE    AWAKING.  8.'>9 

images  of  blue  sky,  :ind  wreathing  cloud,  and  green 
mountain-top  are  shaken  and  confused  on  the  tremu- 
lous and  twinkling  wave,  but  unite  together  into  the 
old  picture  when  the  water  has  recovered  its  glassy 
smoothness, — so,  still  more  slowly  did  Kennedy's  trou- 
bled memory  reflect  the  incidents  (alas,  unbcautiful 
and  threatening  incidents !)  of  the  preceding  days. 
They  came  back  to  him  as  he  lay  there  quite  still ;  and 
then  he  groaned. 

"  Hush,  dearest  Edward !"  said  Eva,  who  had 
watched  his  face,  and  guessed,  from  its  expressive 
workings,  the  progress  of  his  thoughts ;  "  hush,  we 
are  with  you,  and  all  is  going  on  well.  Your  hand  is 
healing." 

He  found  that  his  right  hand  was  tightly  and  firmly 
bandaged,  and  kept  still  by  a  splint. 

"Was  it  much  hurt  ?   Shall  I  recover  the  use  of  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  almost  certainly,  Dr.  Leesby  says.  I  will 
te\\  papa  that  you  are  awake." 

"  Is  he  very,  very  angry  ?"  asked  poor  Kennedy. 

"  He  has  forgiven  all,  dear,"  she  said,  kissing  his 
forehead.  "  It  was  all  very  dreadful  !"  and  a  cold 
shiver  ran  over  her  ;  "  but  none  of  us  will  ever  allude 
to  it  again.  Banish  it  from  your  thoughts,  Eddy ;  we 
will  leave  Camford  as  soon  as  you  can  be  moved." 

She  went  to  fetch  her  father,  and  as  he  came  in 
and  leant  fondly  over  his  son's  sick-bed,  and  grasped 
warmly  his  unwounded  hand,  tears  of  afflicting  memory 
coursed  each  other  fast  down  the  old  man's  cheeks. 
He  had  Deen  hard,  too  hard  upon  Edward ;  perhapa 
his  severity  had  driven  him  of  late  into  such  bad 
courses,  and   to  the  brink  of  such  an   awful  and  dis- 


360  "TWO    FIRM    FRIENDS." 

graceful  end  ;  perhaps  if  he  had  been  kinder,  gentler, 
more  sympathizing  for  this  first  offense,  he  might  have 
been  saved  the  anguish  of  driving  his  poor  boj  to  lower 
and  wilder  depths  of  sin  and  sorrow.  It  was  all  over 
now ;  and,  amid  the  apparent  wreck  of  all  his  hopes, 
even  after  the  death-blows  which  recent  events  had 
dealt  to  his  old  pride  in  his  noble  child,  he  yet  re- 
garded him  as  he  lay  there — wounded  and  in  such  a 
Wdj — with  all  the  pity  of  a  Christian's  forgiveness, 
<Fith  all  the  fondness  of  a  father's  love. 

"  Oh,  father  !  I  have  suffered  unspeakably.  If  God 
ever  raises  me  to  health  and  strength  again,  I  vow 
with  all  my  heart  to  serve  him  as  I  have  never  done 
oefore." 

"Yes,  Edward,  I  trust  and  believe  it;  think  no  more 
.)f  the  past ;  let  the  dead  bury  their  dead.  The  golden 
f)resent  is  before  you,  and  you  will  have  two  friends 
who  never  desert  the  brave  man — your  Maker  and 
yourself." 

A  silence  followed,  and  then  Eva  said:  "  I  have  just 
ieen  Dr.  Leesby,  Eddy,  and  he  says  that  if  you  are 
now  quite  yourself,  and  the  light-headedness  has  ceased, 
you  may  be  moved  on  Monday." 
"And  to-day  is  ? — I  have  lost  all  count  of  time." 
"  To-day  is  Saturday.  Won't  it  be  charming,  dear, 
i;o  find  ourselves  once  more  at  home  ;  quietly  at  home, 
mih.  no  one  but  ourselves,  and  our  own  love  to  make  ua 
ijppy?" 

"And  what  am  I  to  do,  Eva?" 

"  Hush,  Eddy  !  sufficient  for  the  day " 

"  Does  8he  know,  Eva  ?  do  you  ever  hear  froiB  bei 

oow  r 


NOT    ENEMIES.  3G1 

"Yes,  often — but  do  not  think  too  much  of  those 
things  just  yet." 

"And  Julian?" 

"  He  has  often  come  to  ask  after  you,"  she  said, 
blushing,  "  but  he  is  afraid  to  see  you,  lest  it  should  do 
you  harm  just  now." 

••  Perhaps  he  is  right.  We  are  not  all  enemies, 
then?" 

"Enemies  with  Julian  and  Violet?     Oh  no.'' 

Though  the  engagement  of  Kennedy  with  A^iolet  had 
been  broken  off  by  the  common  desire  of  Julian  and 
Mr.  Kennedy,  the  two  families  still  continued  their 
affectionate  intercourse,  and  bewailed  the  sad  necessity 
which  drove  them  to  a  step  so  painful,  yet  so  unavoid- 
ably required  by  the  welfare  of  all  concerned.  And 
from  the  first  they  hoped  that  all  might  yet  be  well, 
while  some  among  them  began  to  fancy  that  if  Kennedy 
and  Violet  should  ever  be  united,  it  would  not  be  the 
only  close  bond  between  hearts  already  full  of  mutual 
affection. 

So  Julian  still  came  daily  during  Kennedy's  illness 
10  see  Eva  and  Mr.  Kennedy,  and  to  inquire  after  the 
sufferer's  health.  And  sometimes  he  took  them  for  a 
walk  in  the  grounds  or  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
Camford.  a  place  which  they  had  never  visited  before, 
and  which  to  them  was  full  of  interest. 

Eva  had  often  heard  of  the  glories  of  St.  Werner's 
chapel,  and  on  the  Sunday  she  asked  Julian  if  it  would 
be  possible  for  her  to  go  with  her  father  to  the  evening 
service  there. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Julian  ;   "  certainly.     I  will  get  one 

31 


302  SUNDAY    EVENING. 

of  the  fellows  to  take  you  in.     It  is  a  remarkable  sight, 
and  I  think  you  ought  to  go." 

The  Sunday  evenins;  came,  and  Julian  escorted  them 
to  the  ante-chapel,  and  showed  them  the  various  sculp 
ture-3  and  memorials  of  mighty  names.  They  then 
waited  by  the  door  till  some  fellow  whom  Julian  knew 
should  pass  into  the  chapel  to  escort  them  to  a  vacant 
place  in  the  fellows'  seats. 

St.  Werner's  chapel  consists  of  a  single  aisle,  along 
the  floor  of  which  are  placed  rows  of  benches  for  the 
undergraduates  ;  raised  above  these  to  a  height  of  three 
steps  are  the  long  seats,  appropriated  to  the  scholar.^ 
and  the  bachelors  of  arts ;  and  again,  two  steps  above 
these  are  the  seats  of  the  fellows  and  masters  of  arts, 
together  with  room  for  such  casual  strangers  as  may 
chance  to  be  admitted.  In  the  center  of  these  long 
rows,  on  either  side,  are  the  places  for  the  choristers, 
men  and  boys,  and  the  lofty  thrones  whence  the  deans 
"look  down  with  sleepless  eyes  upon  the  world."  By 
the  door  on  either  side  are  the  red-curtained  and  velvet- 
cushioned  seats  of  the  master  and  vice-master,  beyond 
whom  sit  the  noblemen  and  fellow- commoners.  By 
the  lectern  and  reading  desk  is  a  step  of  black  and 
white  marble,  which  extends  to  the  altar,  on  which  are 
two  candlesticks  of  massive  silver ;  and  over  them 
some  beautiful  carved  oaken  work  covers  a  great  paint- 
ing, flanked  on  either  side  by  old  gilded  pictures  of  the 
Saviour  and  the  Madonna.  Imagine  this  space  aF 
lighted  from  wall  to  wall  by  wax  candles,  and  at  the 
end  by  large  lamps  which  shed  a  brighter  and  softei 
light,  and  imagine  it  filled,  if  you  can,  by  five  hundred 
men  in  snowy  surplices,  and  you  have  a  faint  fancy  of 


ST.  iyerni^r's  chapel.  3G3 

the  scene  which  broke  on  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Kennedy  and 
Eva.  as  they  passed  between  the  statues  of  the  ante- 
chapel,  and  under  the  pealing  organ  into  the  inner 
sanctuary  of  St.  Werner's  chapel. 

"Could  thoy  behold — 
Who,  less  insensible  than  sodden  clay 
In  a  sea  river's  bed  at  ebb  of  tide- 
Could  have  beheld  with  undelighted  heart 
So  many  happy  youths,  so  wide  and  fair 
A  congregation  in  its  bndding-time 
Of  health,  and  hope,  and  beauty,  all  at  once 
So  many  divers  samples  from  the  growth 
Of  life's  sweet  season — could  have  seen  unmoved 
That  miscellaneous  garland  of  wild  flowers, 
Decking  the  matron  temples  of  a  place 
So  famous  through  the  world  ?" 


It  was  Mr.  Norton  whom  Julian  caught  hold  of  as  an 
escort  for  his  friends  into  the  chapel.  I  well  remem- 
ber (who  that  saw  it  does  not  ?)  that  entrance.  It  was 
rather  late ;  the  organ  was  playing  a  grand  overture, 
the  men  were  all  in  their  seats,  and  the  service  just 
goin^  to  begin,  when  Eva  entered  leaning  on  Mr.  Norton's 
arm,  and  followed  by  her  father  and  Julian.  Many  of 
the  St.  Werner's  men  had  seen  her  walking  in  the 
grounds  the  last  day  or  two,  and,  as  Kennedy's  sister,  a 
peculiar  interest  attached  to  her  just  then.  But  she 
needed  no  such  accidental  source  of  interest  to  attract 
the  liveliest  attention  of  such  keen  and  warm  enthusiasts 
for  beauty  as  the  Camford  undergraduates.  Ladies  are 
comparatively  rare  apparitions  in  that  semi-monastic 
body  of  scholars  ;  and  ladies  both  young  and  lovely  arc 


364       EVA    KEN1,'EDY    IN    ST.  WERNER'S    CHAPEL. 

rare  indeed.  So  as  Eva  entered,  so  young  and  so  faifj 
the  bright  and  graceful  and  beautiful  Eva — with  that 
exquisite  rose-tinge  which  the  air  of  Orton-on-the-Sea 
had  given  her,  and  the  folded  softness  of  the  tresses 
which  flowed  down  beside  her  perfect  face,  and  the 
light  of  beaming  eyes  seen  like  jewels  under  her  long 
eyelashes  as  she  bent  her  glance  upon  the  ground — as 
Eva  entered,  I  say,  leaning  on  Mr.  Norton's  arm,  and 
touched,  with  the  floating  of  her  pale  silk  dress,  the 
surplices  of  the  St.  Werner's  men  as  they  sat  on  either 
side  down  the  narrow  passage,  it  was  no  wonder  that 
every  single  eye  from  that  of  the  senior  dean*  to  that 
of  the  little  chorister  boy  was  turned  upon  her  for  an 
instant,  as  she  passed  up  to  the  only  vacant  seats,  and 
Mr.  Norton  caused  room  to  be  made  for  her  beside  the 
tutor's  cushion  by  the  chaplain's  desk.  She  was  happily 
unconscious  of  the  admiration,  and  the  perfect  sim- 
plicity of  her  sweet  girlish  unconsciousness  added  a 
fresh  charm  to  the  whole  grace  of  her  manner  and  ap- 
pearance. Only  by  the  slightest  possible  blush  did  she 
show  her  sense  of  her  unusual  position  as  the  cynosure 
for  the  admiring  gaze  of  five  hundred  English  youths ; 
and  that  too  though  the  dark  and  handsome  counte- 
nance of  Mr.  Norton  glowed  visibly  with  a  brighter 
color,  (as  though  he  were  conscious  of  the  thought 
respecting  him  which  darted  across  many  an  under- 
graduate's mind,)  and  even  the  face  of  Julian,  as  he 
walked  to  the  scholars'  seats  among  the  familiar  ranks 
of  his  compeers,  was  flushed  with  the  crimson  of  a 
sensitiveness  which  he  would  fain  have  hidden. 

*  Pace  Decani  dixerim  I 


THE    ANTE-CHAPEL.  365 

And  I  cannot  help  it,  if  even  during  the  noble  service 
—even  amid  the  sound 

"  Of  solemn  psalms  and  silver  litanies," 

the  eyes  of  many  men  wandered  toward  a  sweet  face, 
and  gazed  upon  it  as  they  might  have  gazed  upon  a 
flower,  and  if  the  thoughts  of  many  men  were  absorbed 
unwontedly  in  other  emotions  than  those  of  prayer ; 
nor  can  I  help  it  if  Julian  was  one  of  those  whose  eyes 
and  thoughts  were  so  employed. 

What  an  evening  star  she  was !  and  how  her  very 
presence  filled  all  hearts  with  a  livelier  sense  of  happi- 
ness and  hope,  and  sweet  pure  yearnings  for  wedded 
calm  and  bridal  love  !  But  she — innocent  young  Eva 
— little  knew  of  the  sensation  she  had  caused  by  the 
rare  beauty  of  her  blossoming  womanhood.  Her  whole 
heart  was  in  the  act  of  worship,  except  when  it 
wandered  for  a  moment  to  her  poor  sick  Eddy,  whom 
they  had  left  alone,  or  for  another  moment  to  one 
whom  she  could  not  but  see  before  her  in  the  scholars' 
seats.  She  did  not  know  that  men  were  looking  at 
her,  as  she  raised  her  clear  warbling  voice  amid  the 
silvery  trebles  of  the  choir,  and  uttered  with  all  the 
expressiveness  of  genuine  emotion  those  strains  of 
poetry  and  passion  which  thrilled  from  the  heart  to 
the  harp  of  the  warrior-prophet  and  poet-king.  And 
never  did  truer  prayers  come  from  a  woman's  lips  than 
those  which  her  heart  offered  as  her  head  was  bowed 
that  night. 

The  service  was  over,  and  the  congregation  streamed 

31* 


iQQ  JULIAN    AND    EVA, 

out.  That  evening  the  ante-chapel  was  fuller  thac 
usual  of  men,  who  stayed  nominally  to  hear  the  organ  ; 
but  besides  those  musical  souls,  who  always  linger  tc 
hear  the  voluntary,  or  to  talk  in  little  groups,  there 
were  others  who,  on  that  pretense,  waited  to  catch 
another  glimpse — a  last  glimpse  of  eyes  whose  deep 
and  lovely  color  had  flowed  into  their  souls.  They 
were  disappointed  though,  for  Eva  dropped  her  vail. 
With  a  graceful  bow  to  Mr.  Norton,  which  he  returned 
with  courteous  dignity,  she  took  Julian's  proffered  arm, 
and  walked  out  into  the  court,  her  father  following.  A 
proud  man  was  Julian  that  evening,  and  the  subject  of 
kindly  envy  to  not  a  few. 

But  that  lictle  incident  —  the  many  eyes  that  had 
seen  his  treasure — determined  Julian  to  take  the  step 
which  he  had  long  decided  upon  in  his  secret  heart. 
He  was  jealous  of  the  open,  unconcealed  admiration 
which  Eva  had  excited,  and  it  made  him  fear  lest 
another  should  approach  the  object  of  his  love,  and 
occupy  a  place  in  the  heart  which  he  had  not  even 
demanded  as  his  own.  He  was  positively  in  a  hurry. 
What  if  some  undergraduate  should  get  an  introduction 
to  Eva — some  gay  and  handsome  Adonis — and  should 
suddenly  carry  away  her  heart  ? 

So  Avhen  Mr.  Kennedy  went  into  the  sick-room  to 
read  to  Edward  the  lessons  for  the  day,  and  Julian 
stayed  with  Eva  in  the  sitting-room,  he  drew  his  chair 
beside  hers,  and  they  began  to  talk  about  St.  Werner's 

"  Do  you  think  you  shall  ever  be  a  fellow,  Julian '{ 
I  should  so  like  you  to  be." 

"  And  if  I  am,  I  shall  hope  very  soor.  to  exchange 
il  for  a  happier  fellowship,  Eva." 


THE    HAPPINESS    OF    LOVE.  367 

She  wouldn't  see  -what  he  meant,  so  he  said  :  "  Eva, 
shall  I  read  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  should  like  it  so  much  ;  I  used 
to  enjoy  so  much  the  poetry  we  read  at  Grindelwald." 

He  took  down  Coleridge's  poems  from  the  shelf,  and 
read — 

"  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
Are  all  but  ministers  of  love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame!" 

He  went  on,  watching  her  color  change  with  the 
musical  variation  of  his  voice,  until  he  came  to  the 
verse — 

"  I  told  her  how  he  pined — and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
In  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own." 

He  saw  her  breast  heaving  with  agitation;  and,  throw- 
ing away  the  book,  he  bent  down  beside  her,  and 
looked  up  into  her  deep  eyes,  and  said :  "  Oh  Eva, 
what  need  of  concealment?  you  have  read  it  long  ago. 
have  you  not  ?  I  love  you,  Eva  ;  love  you  so  passion- 
ately— you  cannot  tell  the  depth  of  my  love.  Do  you 
return  it,  Eva?"  he  said,  as  he  gained  possession  of 
her  hand. 

She  had  won  him  then — the  dream  of  her  latter  life  ! 
This  was  the  noble  Julian  kneeling  at  her  side.  She 
trembled  for  very  joy,  and  whispered :  "  Oh  Julian, 
Julian,  do  you  not  see  that  I  Icved  you  from  the  first 
day  we  met?"       She  regretted  the  speech  the  next 


368  HAPPINESS    MIXED    WITH    SADNESS. 

moment,  as  though  it  had  been  wanting  in  maidenly 
reserve,  but  it  was  the  first  warm  natural  utterance  of 
her  heart ;  and  Julian  sprang  up  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy, 
and,  as  she  rose,  he  claimed  as  his  due  a  lover's  kiss. 

She  blushed  crimson,  but  suffered  him  to  sit  down 
beside  her;  and  they  sat,  hardly  knowing  anything  but 
the  great  fact  that  they  loved  each  other,  till  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy's voice  had  ceased  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  he 
came  in. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are,"  he  said;  "Edward  is  sinking 
to  sleep.     How  good  of  you  to  be  so  quiet !" 

They  rose  up,  and  Julian  led  her  to  him  with  her 
hand  in  his,  and  his  arm  supporting  her.  "  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy," he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  ask  you  for  the  most 
priceless  jewel  you  possess." 

"  What  ?  is  it  indeed  so  ?  Ah,  you  wicked  Julian, 
do  not    rob  me  of  Eva  yet.     She  is  too  young ;  and 

now  that  Edward  seems  likely  to  be  ill  so  long ah, 

me  !  I  am  bereaved  of  my  children.  Well,  well,  I 
suppose  it  must  be  so.  Come  here,  darling,  to  the  old 
father  you  are  going  to  desert :  I  dare  say  Julian  won't 
grudge  me  one  kiss." 

He  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  she  clung  about  his  neck 
as  she  whispered:  "But  it  will  not  be  yet  for  a  long, 
long  time,  papa." 

"  What  youth  calls  long,  my  Eva ;  but  not  long  for 
those  who  are  walking  into  the  shadow  down  the  hill." 

0  happy,  happy  lovers !  how  gloriously  that  night 
did  the  stars  shine  out  for  you  in  the  deep,  unfathom- 
able galaxies  of  heaven,  and  the  dew  fall,  and  the 
moon  dawn  into  a  sky  yet  flushed  with  the  long-nn 


FITFUL   SLEEP.  3t)if 

fading  purple  of  the  fading  day  !  Yet  there  was  sad- 
ness mixed  with  their  happiness  as  they  heard,  until 
they  parted,  the  plaintive  murmurs  of  Kennedy's  fitful 
sleep,  and  thought  of  all  the  sufferings  of  their  bro 
ther,  and  how  nearly,  how  very  nearly,  he  had  been 
hurried  from  the  midst  of  them  by  seli-inflioted  death. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


REPENTANCE. 


"This  world  will  not  believe  a  man  repents, 
And  tbis  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly  right ; 
For  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  and  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious  quitch 
Of  blood  and  nature  wholly  out  of  him, 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself  afresh." 

Tennyson's  Idylls, 

Beautiful  Orton-on-the-Seca !  who  that  has  been 
there  does  not  long  to  return  there  again  and  again, 
and  gaze  on  the  green  and  purple  of  its  broad  bay,  and 
its  one  little  islet,  and  the  golden  sands  that  stretch 
along  its  winding  shore,  and  its  glens  clothed  with 
fir-trees  and  musical  with  the  voice  of  many  rills. 

It  was  there  that  Kennedy  had  lived  from  childhood, 
and  it  was  there  that  he  now  returned  to  spend  at  home 
the  year  of  his  rustication.  They  arrived  at  home  on 
Monday  evening,  and  from  that  time  forward  Kennedy 
rapidly  gained  health  and  strength,  and  was  able  to 
move  about  again,  though  his  hand  healed  but  slowly, 
and  it  took  months  to  enable  him  to  use  it  without 
pain. 

On  that  little  islet  of  the  bay  was  Kennedy's  favorite 
(370) 


ORTON    ISLET.  37] 

liaunt.  It  was  a  place  where  the  top  of  a  low  cliff  was 
Bheltored  by  a  clump  of  trees  which  formed  a  natural 
bower,  from  whence  he  would  gaze  untired  for  hours 
on  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  tide.  A  little  orphan 
cousin  whom  Mr.  Kennedy  had  adopted,  used  to  row 
him  over  to  this  retirement,  and  while  the  boy  stayed 
in  their  little  boat,  and  fished,  or  hunted  for  sea-birds' 
nests  in  the  undisturbed  creeks  and  inlets,  Kennedy, 
with  some  volume  of  the  poets  in  his  hand,  would  rest 
under  the  waving  branches,  and  gaze  upon  the  glancing 
waves. 

And  at  times,  when,  like  a  great  glowing  globe,  the 
Bun  sunk,  after  the  fiery  heat  of  some  burning  summer 
day,  into  the  crimsoned  waters,  and  filled  the  earth, 
and  the  heavens,  and  the  sea  with  silent  splendors,  a  deep 
feeling  of  solemnity,  such  as  he  had  never  before  ex- 
perienced, would  steal  over  Kennedy's  mind.  He  could 
not  but  remember  that,  but  for  God's  special  grace 
thwarting  the  nearly  accomplished  purpose  of  his  sin, 
the  eyes  which  were  filled  with  such  indescribable 
visions  of  glory  would  have  been  closed  in  death,  and 
the  brow  on  which  the  sea  wind  was  beating  in  such 
cool  and  refreshful  perfume  would  have  been  crumbling 
under  the  clammy  sod.  Surely  it  must  be  for  some 
great  thing  that  his  life  had  been  saved  ;  it  was  his  own 
no  longer ;  it  must  be  devoted  to  mighty  purposes  of 
love  and  toil.  Kennedy  began  to  look  for  some  work 
of  danger  and  suffering  as  his  portion  upon  earth :  he 
longed  ambitiously  for  the  wanderings  of  the  apostle 
and  the  crown  of  the  martyr.  The  good  deeds  of  a 
conventional    piety,  the   quiet   routine   of  a   common- 


R72  YEARNINGS. 

place  benevolence,  seemed  no  meet  or  adequate  em- 
ployment for  his  highly-wrought  mind.  No,  he  -would 
sail  to  another  world  ;  there  he  would  join  a  new  colony 
in  clearing  away  the  primeval  depths  of  some  virgin 
forest,  and  tilling  the  glebes  of  a  rich  and  untried  soil ; 
and,  living  among  them,  he  would  make  that  place  a 
center  for  wide  evangelization — the  home  of  religious 
enthusiasms  and  equal  laws ;  or  he  would  go  as  a  mis- 
sionary to  the  savage  and  the  cannibal,  and,  sailing 
from  reef  to  reef,  where  the  coral-islands  of  the  Pacific 
mirror  in  the  deep  waters  of  their  calm  lagoon  the 
reed-huts  of  the  savage,  and  the  feathery  coronal  of 
tropic  trees,  he  would  devote  his  life  to  reclaiming  from 
ignorance  and  barbarism  the  waste  places  of  a  degraded 
humanity. 

Such  were  the  visions  and  purposes  that  floateo 
through  his  mind  —  partly  the  fantastic  fancies  of 
dreamy  hours,  partly  the  unconscious  desire  to  fly  from 
a  land  which  reminded  him  too  painfully  of  vanished 
hopes,  and  from  a  scene  which  had  been  the  witness  of 
his  error  and  disgrace.  Perhaps,  most  of  all,  he  was 
influenced  by  the  desire  to  escape  from  a  house  which 
constantly  recalled  the  image  of  a  lost  love — a  lost  love 
that  he  never  hoped  to  regain ;  for  Kennedy  thought 
— though  but  little  had  been  said  about  it — that  Violet 
had  deliberately  and  finally  rejected  him  in  scorn  for 
the  courses  he  had  followed. 

But  he  wished,  before  he  quite  made  up  his  mind  as 
to  his  future  career,  to  see  Violet  once  more,  and  bid 
her  a  last  farewell.  Not  daring  to  write  and  announce 
his  intention  lest  she  should  refuse  to  meet  him  again. 


ONE    MORE    INTERVIEW.  373 

and  un-willing  to  trust  his  secret  to  any  of  her  family, 
he  determined  to  sec  her  by  surprise,  and  enjoy  for 
one  last  hour  the  unspeakable  happiness  of  sitting  by 
her  side. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "I  am  well  noAV,  or  nearly  well ; 
uill  you  let  me  go  on  a  little  journey  ?" 

"A  journey? — where?  We  will  all  go  together, 
Edward,  if  you  want  any  change  of  air  and  scene." 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  can  guess,"  he  said, 
"  where  I  wish  to  go  for  the  last  time." 

"  But  do  you  think  you  can  travel  alone,  Eddy,  with 
your  poor  wounded  hand?"  asked  Eva. 

"  Oh,  yes ; .  the  splinters  keep  it  safe,  and  I  shall 
only  be  two  days  or  so  away." 

They  suffered  him  to  fulfill  his  whim,  although  they 
felt  that  if  he  saw  Violet,  the  meeting  could  hardly  fail 
to  be  full  of  pain. 

It  was  deep  in  autumn  when  he  started,  and  arriv- 
ing at  Ildown,  took  up  his  abode  in  the  little  village 
inn.  He  kept  himself  as  free  from  observation  as  he 
could,  and  begged  the  landlady,  who  recognized  him, 
not  to  mention  his  arrival  to  any  one.  She  had  seen 
him  on  his  former  visit,  and  remembered  favorably  his 
genial  good  humor  and  affable  bearing.  He  told  her 
frankly  that  he  had  come  to  say  good-by  to  Miss  Home, 
whom  he  might  not  see  again ;  but  he  did  not  wish  to 
go  to  the  house — could  the  landlady  tell  him  anything 
about  their  movements  ? 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  do  happen  to  know,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  suppose  there  can't  be  no  harm  in  telling  you, 
for  I  heard  Master  Cyril  say  as  how  they  were  ah' 

a2 


874  A   CONVERSATION. 

a-go'ing  a-gipsying  to-morrow  in   the   wood    near   tha 
King's  Oak." 

"And  when  do  you  think  they  will  start?" 

"Oh,  they'll  start  at  ten,  sir,  in  the  morning,  for  I'm 
a-going  to  lend  'em  my  little  trap  to  carry  the  per- 
wisions  in,  and  that." 

This  would  suit  Kennedy  capitally,  and,  musing  on 
the  meeting  of  the  morrow,  he  sank  into  a  doze  in  the 
arm-chair.  A  whispering  awoke  him,  and  he  was  far 
from  reassured  by  overhearing  the  following  colloquy : — 

"  Who  be  that  in  the  parlor  ?"  asked  a  rustic. 

"  Oh,  that's  the  young  gentleman  as  wer'  Miss 
Violet's  sweetheart,"  said  the  bar-maid,  confidentially; 
"  nobody  don't  know  of  it,  but  I  heard  the  missus 
a-saying  so." 

"  Why  bean't  he  at  the  house  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  ye  know,  he  aint  her  sweetheart  no  longer ; 
there's  been  a  muddle  somehow,  and  they  do  say  as 
how  he  shot  hisself,  but  he  don't  seem  to  be  shot  much 
now,  to  look  at  'im.  He's  as  likely  and  proper  a 
young  gentleman  as  I've  seen  for  a  long  time." 

Taking  his  candle,  wearily,  Kennedy  listened  to  no 
more  of  the  conversation,  and  went  to  bed.  His  bed- 
room window  looked  toward  the  pleasant  house  and 
garden  of  Mrs.  Home,  and  he  did  not  lie  down  till  he 
had  seen  the  light  extinguished  in  the  embowered 
window  of  Violet's  room.  Next  morning  he  got  up 
betimes,  and,  after  dressing  himself  with  the  utmost 
pain  and  difficulty,  for  he  did  not  like  to  ask  for  the 
assistance  which  he  always  had  at  home  since  his  ill- 
ness, he  wont  down  to  breakfast.     Hardly  touching  the 


ILDOAVN   WOOD.  375 

dainties  which  the  hospitable  okl  landlady  had  provided, 
he  strolled  off  to  the  wood,  almost  before  Ildown  was 
astir,  and  sat  down  in  a  place,  not  far  from  the  King's 
Oak,  in  a  green  hollow,  where  he  was  sheltered  from 
sight  by  the  broad  tree  trunks  and  the  tall  and  graceful 
ferns. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait,  and  the  time  so  spent 
would  have  been  happy  if  agitation  had  not  prevented 
him  from  enjoying  the  glories  of  the  scene.  Nowhere 
was  "  the  gorgeous  and  melancholy  beauty  of  the  sunlit 
autumnal  landscape  more  bounteously  displayed."  The 
grand  old  trees  all  round  him  were  burning  themselves 
away  in  many-colored  flames,  and  the  green  leaves  that 
still  lingered  amid  the  rich  hues  of  beautiful  decay, 
suggested,  in  their  contrasting  harmony  with  their 
withered  brethren,  many  a  deep  moral  to  the  thought- 
ful mind  :  and  everything  that  the  thoughts  could  shape 
received  a  deeper  emphasis  from  the  unbroken  silence 
of  the  wood. 

The  occupation  of  his  mind  made  the  time  pass 
quickly,  and  it  seemed  but  a  few  minutes  when  he  saw 
the  Homes  approaching  the  King's  Oak.  The  boys 
laid  on  the  greensward  the  materials  for  the  picnic, 
and  then,  while  Violet  and  Mrs.  Home  seated  them- 
selves on  a  fallen  trunk  and  took  out  their  work,  Julian 
read  to  them,  and  Cyril  and  Frank  walked  through 
the  wood  in  search  of  exercise  and  amusement. 

As  they  passed  near  the  spot  where  Kennedy  was 
seated,  they  caught  sight  of  a  squirrel's  nest,  and  Frank 
was  instantly  on  the  alert  to  reach  the  spoil.  While 
he  "was  scrambling  wnth  difficulty  up  the  tall  fir,  Cyril 


376  CYRIL    AND    I'RANK. 

Stayed  at  the  foot,  and  Kennedy  determined  to  cal\ 
him.  Cyril  had  grown  into  a  tall  handsome  boy 
of"  seventeen,  and  Kennedy  knew  that  he  could  bo 
fnistod  to  help  him,  for  he  had  won  the  boy's 
affection  thoroughly  when  they  were  together  in  Swit- 
zerland. 

"  Cyril !" 

The  sound  of  a  voice  in  that  quiet  place,  out  of  ear- 
shot of  his  friends,  startled  Cyril,  and  he  turned  hastily 
round. 

"  Who's  there  ?" 

"  Edward  Kennedy.  Come  here,  Cyril,  and  let  me 
speak  to  you;  Frank  does  not  notice  us." 

"Edward — you  here?"  said  Cyril;  "why  don't  you 
come  and  see  mother?" — he  was  going  to  say  Violet, 
but  he  checked  himself. 

"  I  want  to  see,  not  Mrs.  Home,  but  Violet,"  said 
Kennedy ;  "  you  know  our  engagement  is  broken  off, 
Cyril ;  I  have  only  come  to  say  farewell,  before  I  leave 
England,  perhaps  forever.     Call  Violet  here  alone." 

Cyril,  who  had  heard  of  Kennedy's  wild  ways  at 
college,  and  of  the  dreadful  story  that  had  raised 
against  him  the  suspicion  of  intended  suicide,  hesitated 
a  moment,  as  though  he  were  half  afraid,  or  unwilling 
to  fulfill  the  commission.  But  Kennedy  said  to  him 
sorrowfully, — 

"  You  need  not  fear,  Cyril,  that  you  will  be  doing 
wrong.  Tell  Frank  first,  and  then  you  can  stay  near, 
while  I  speak  for  a  few  minutes  to  your  sister." 

Cyril  called  down  his  brother  from  the  tree,  and 
told     him    that    Kennedy  was     there.       "Stay  here, 


•*!* 


UNDER  AUTUMN  TREES.  37 

Frankie,  while  I  fetch  Violet ;  Edward  wants  to  bitl 
her  good-by." 

He  ran  off,  and  said ;  "  Come  here,  Vi.;  Frank  and 
I  have  something  to  show  yon." 

"  Is  it  anything  very  particuhir  ?"  said  A'^iolet ;  "for 
r  shall  disturb  Julian's  reading  if  I  go  away." 

"Yes,  something  very  particular." 

"Won't  vou  tell  me  what?" 

"  Why,  a  squirrel's  nest  for  one  thing,  which  Frank 
has  found.     Do  come." 

"You  imperious  boys,  at  home  for  your  holidays!" 
she  said,  smiling ;  "  Punch  hasn't  half  cured  you  of 
your  tyranny  to  us  poor  sisters,"  She  rose  to  follow 
him,  and  when  they  had  gone  a  few  steps,  he  said, — 

"  Vi.,  Edward  Kennedy  is  in  that  little  dell  there, 
behind  the  trees  ;  he  has  come,  he  says,  to  bid  you 
good-by." 

The  sudden  announcement  startled  her  ;  but  she  only 
leaned  on  Cyril's  shoulder,  and  walked  en,  while  he 
almost  heard  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

"  We  will  stay  here,  Violet ;  you  see  him  there." 

Cyril  pointed  to  a  tree,  against  whose  trunk  Ken- 
nedy was  leaning,  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground, 
looking  at  the  red  splashes  on  the  withered  leaves, 
and  the  golden  buds  embroidered  on  "  elf-needled 
mat  of  moss."  Hearing  the  sound  of  footsteps,  he 
raised  his  head,  and  a  moment  after  he  was  by  Violet's 
side. 

Taking  her  hand  without  a  word,  wnile  her  bosom 
shook  with  deep  sobs  as  she  saw  his  pale  face  and 
maimed  hand,  he  led  her  to  the  gnarled  and  serpentine 

32* 


378  VIOLET    AND    KENNEDY. 

roots  oF  a  great  oak,  and  seated  her  there,  -while  he  sat 
lowly  at  her  feet  upon  the  red  ground 

"With  sheddings  of  the  pining  umbrage  tinged." 

How  was  it  that  she  did  not  shrink  from  him  ?  How 
was  it  that  she  seemed  content  to  rest  close  beside  him, 
and  suffered  her  hand  to  rest  upon  his  shoulder,  as  he 
stooped  ?  Did  she  love  him  still  after  all  ?  Had  Julian 
deceived  him  with  the  assertion  of  her  acquiescence  in 
the  termination  of  their  engagement  ?  A  strange  rush 
of  new  hope  filled  his  heart.  He  would  test  the  true 
state  of  her  affections. 

"I  have  come,"  he  said,  in  that  tone  of  voice  which 
was  so  dear  to  her  remembrance,  "  I  have  come,  Vio- 
let, to  bid  you  farewell  forever.  Since  you  have  re- 
jected me,  I  have  neither  heart  nor  hope,  and  I  shall 
leave  England  as  soon  as  I  may  go." 

The  tears  were  falling  fast  from  her  blue  eyes.  "  Oh, 
Edward,"  she  said,  "why  do  you  bid  me  farewell?  do 
you  not  think  that  I  love  you  still  ?" 

"  Still,  Violet  ?  you  love  7ne,  the  ruined,  dishonor- 
able, disgraced;  the — "      She  would  not  hear  the 

dreadful  word,  but  laid  her  finger  on  his  lip. 

"  Oh,  hush,  Edward!  those  words  are  not  for  you. 
You  may  have  sinned;  they  tell  me  you  have  sinned. 
But  have  you  not  repented,  too,  Edward  ?  Have  the 
lessons  of  sickness  and  anguish  taught  you  nothing  ? 
I  am  sure  they  have.  I  could  not  wed  one  who  waa 
living  an  evil  life,  but  now  I  see  your  true  self  oncfl 
more." 


AUTUMN    LOVE.  379 


(( I 


Then  you  love  me  still  ?"  The  words  were  i  ttered 
in  astonishment,  and  the  emotions  of  unexpected  joy 
almost  overpowered  him. 

"  I  never  ceased  to  love  you,  Edward.  Do  you 
think  that  I  am  one  to  trifle  with  your  heart,  or  to  use 
it  as  a  plaything  for  me  to  triumph  by  ?  Never,  never 
Had  you  died,  or,  worse  still,  had  you  continued  in  sin- 
ful ways,  I  could  not  even  then  have  ceased  to  love  you, 
though  we  might  have  been  separated  until  death.  But 
now  I  read  other  things  in  your  face,  Edward,  and  I 
will  be  yours — your  betrothed — again.  Come,  let  ua 
join  the  rest.  There  is  not  one  of  us  but  will  welcome 
you  with  joy." 

"Nay,  nay,  let  us  stay  here  for  a  moment,"  he 
cried,  as  he  rose  up  ;  "  let  me  realize  the  joyful  sensa- 
tion which  your  words  have  given  me ;  let  me  sit  here, 
Violet,  a  few  moments,  at  your  feet,  and  feel  the  touch 
of  your  hand  in  mine,  and  look  at  your  face,  that  I 
may  recover  strength  again." 

They  sat  there  in  silence,  and  the  thoughts  of  both 
recurred  to  that  other  scene  where  they  had  sat  on 
the  great  boulder  under  the  shadow  of  the  Alps,  and 
watched  the  rose-film  steal  over  their  white  summits  on 
the  golden  summer  eve.  It  was  the  same  love  that 
still  filled  their  souls — the  same  love,  but  more  sober^ 
more  quiet,  more  like  the  love  of  maturer  years,  les.s 
like  the  passionate  love  of  boy  and  girl.  It  was  more 
of  an  autumnal  love  than  of  old ;  and,  if  the  depart- 
ing summer  had  flung  new  hues  over  the  forest  and 
the  glen,  they  were  the  duller  hues  that  recalled  to 
mind  the  grsater  glory  of  the  past,     it  was  round  a 


380  COMMON-LIFE    HEROISM. 

dying  year  that  Autumn  was  "  folding  his  jeweled 
arms."  Yet,  they  were  happy — very  happy,  and  they 
felt  that,  come  what  might,  nothing  on  earth  could  part 
them  now. 

When  Kennedy  had  grown  more  calm,  Violet  called 
for  Cyril,  and  bade  him  break  the  fact  of  Edward's 
presence  to  her  mother  and  Julian.  The  boy  bounded 
off  to  do  her  bidding,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  Kennedy 
was  seated  among  the  Homes  as  one  of  them.  They 
received  him  with  no  simulated  affection ;  Frank  and 
Cyril  helped  to  take  away  all  awkwardness  from  the 
meeting,  by  their  high  spirits,  and  when  they  all  sat 
down  on  the  velvet  mosses  to  their  rural  meal,  every 
one  of  them  had  banished  the  painful  hauntings  of  the 
past.  Of  course  Kennedy  accompanied  them  home; 
they  drove  back  in  the  quiet  evening,  and  Kennedy  sat 
by  Violet's  side. 

He  stayed  at  Ildown  till  Julian  returned  to  St. 
Werner's,  and,  as  was  natural,  he  revolved  in  his  mind 
continually  his  future  course.  At  last,  he  determined 
to  talk  it  over  with  Violet,  and  told  her  of  all  his 
heroic  longings  for  a  life  of  toil  and  endeavor,  if  need 
were,  even  of  banishment  and  death  —  all  the  high 
thoughts  that  had  filled  his  heart  as  he  sat  alone  in  the 
island  by  Orton-on-the-Sea. 

"Let  us  wait,"  she  said,  "Edward.  God  will  decide 
all  this  for  us  in  time ;  and,  if  duty  seems  to  call  you 
to  the  hard  life  of  missionary  or  colonist,  I  am  ready 
to  go  with  you." 

"  But  don't  you  feel  yourself,  Violet,  a  kind  of 
common  placeness  about  English  life ;  a  silver-slippered 


THE    ISLAND    HEART.  3bl 

religion,  a  pettiness  that  does  not  satisfy,  a  sense  of 
comfort  incompatible  with  the  strong  desire  to  do  thfl 
work  which  others  will  not  do  in  the  neglected  cornera 
of  the  vineyard?" 

*'No,"  she  answered,  smiling;   "I  am  content. 

'  The  trivial  round,  the  comraoQ  task. 
Should  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask  ; 
Room  to  deny  ourselves — a  road 
To  bring  us  daily  nearer  God.' " 

**True,"  he  said;  "well,  I  must  try  not  to  carry 
ambition  into  my  religion." 

"  Of  course  you  return  to  St.  Werner's,  next  au- 
tumn ?" 

He  mused  long.  "  Ah,  Violet,  you  cannot  conceive 
how  awful  to  my  imagination  that  place  has  grown. 
And  to  return,  after  rustication,  and  live  among  men 
who  will  regard  me  with  galling  curiosity,  and  dona 
who  will  look  at  me  sideways,  with  suspicion — can  I 
ever  bear  it  ?" 

*'  Why  not,  Edward  ?  They  cannot  affect  you  by 
their  opinion.  I  heard  you  say  the  other  day  that 
your  heart  was  becoming  an  island,  and  the  waters 
round  it  broadening  every  day.  If  the  island  itself 
be  beautiful  and  happy,  it  need  not  reck  of  the  outer 
world." 

"You  are  right,  Violet.  I  will  return,  if  need  be, 
and  bear  all  meekly  which  I  have  deserved  to  bear. 
The  one  sorrow  will  be  gone,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  her 
nearer  to  his  side,  "  that  drove  me  into         Yes,  you 


882  BITTER    LESSONS. 

are  right.  I  will  go  away  home  to-morrow,when  Juliaii 
starts,  and  begin  from  the  very  first  day  to  read  with 
all  ray  might.  Hitherto  I  have  had  only  the  bitter 
lessons  of  Camford :  let  us  see  if  I  cannot  gain  somt 
of  Ler  honors,  too." 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

BRUCE    IN    TROUBLE. 

TTjVEt  3pue(;,  wSs  xo-ecpn^, 

Theocr.  Id.,  i.  106. 

*'Nuda  nee  arva  placent,  umbnisque  negatitia  mollta, 
Nee  dudum  vetiti  me  laris  augit  amor." — THilton. 

Bruce,  when  expelled  from  St.  Werner's,  thought 
very  little  of  his  disgrace.  It  hardly  ruffled  the  calm 
Btream  of  his  self-complacency,  and,  for  some  reasons, 
he  was  rather  glad  that  it  had  happened.  He  did  not 
like  Camford ;  he  had  never  taken  to  reading,  and 
being  thus  debarred  from  all  intellectual  pleasures,  he 
had  grown  thoroughly  tired  of  late  breakfasts,  boat- 
ing on  the  muddy  Iscam,  noisy  wines,  and  interminable 
whist  parties.  Moreover,  he  had  made  far  less  sensa- 
tion at  Camford  than  he  had  expected.  Somehow  or 
other  he  had  a  dim  consciousness  that  men  saw  through 
him ;  that  his  cleverness  did  not  conceal  his  super- 
ticiality,  nor  his  easy  manners  blind  men's  eyes  to  his 
ungenerous  and  selfish  heart.  Even  his  late  phase  of 
popular  skepticism  was  less  successful  at  Camford  than 
it  would  have  been  at  places  of  less  steady  diligence 
and  less  sound  acquirements.  In  fact,  Bruce  imagined 
that  he  was  by  no  means  appreciated.  The  sphere  waa 
too  narrow  for  him  ;  he  was  quite  sure  that  in  the  arena 

(883) 


384  QUITE    A    TRIFLE. 

of  London  society  and  political  life  he  was  qualified  to 
play  a  far  more  conspicuous  part. 

Nor  did  he  believe  that  Sir  Rollo  Bruce  would  care 
for  his  expulsion  any  more  than  he  did  himself;  he 
fancied  that  his  father  was  quite  above  the  middle 
class  prejudices  of  respect  and  reverence  for  pedantry 
and  pedagogues,  and  was  too  much  a  man  of  the  world 
to  be  disturbed  by  a  slight  contretemps  like  this.  He 
wrote  home  a  careless  note  to  mention  the  fact  that 
his  St.  Werner's  career  was  ended,  and  attributed  this 
result  to  a  mere  escapade  at  a  wine  party,  which  had 
been  distorted  by  rumor,  and  exaggerated  by  malice 
into  a  serious  offense. 

So  when  Vyvyan  gayly  entered  his  father's  house, 
he  felt  rather  light  hearted  than  otherwise.  He  ex- 
pected that  very  likely  some  party  would  be  going  on, 
and  quite  looked  forward  to  an  agreeable  dance.  When 
he  arrived,  however,  Vyvyan  House  was  quite  silent ;  a 
dim  light  came  from  a  single  window,  but  that  was  all. 

"  Sir  Rollo  and  my  mother  not  at  home,  I  suppose," 
he  said  to  the  plushed  and  powdered  footman. 

"Yes,  sir,  they're  in  the  library." 

He  entered ;  they  were  sitting  on  opposite  sides  :^f 
the  fire,  with  a  single  lamp  between  them.  They  were 
uot  doing  anything,  and  Lady  Bruce*  appeared  to  have 
been  crying  ;  but  neither  of  them  took  any  notice  of 
his  entrance  beyond  turning  their  heads. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  he  said,  advancing  gracefully  ; 
but  not  a  little  surprised  at  so  silent  and  moody  a 
greeting. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  was  his  father's  cold  reply. 

"  Dear  me — I  quite  expected  to  find  a  party  going 


VYVYAN    AT    HOME.  385 

on,  but    you    seem   quite    gloomy.      Is    anything    the 
matter?" 

''Matter,  sir!"  exchiimed  Sir  Rollo,  starting  uf» 
vehemently  from  his  chair,  and  angrily  pacing  the 
ryom.  "  Matter  !  Upon  my  word,  Vy vyan,  your  im- 
p;idence  is  sublime." 

"You  surprise  me.     What  have  I  done?" 

"Done!"  retorted  his  father,  with  intense  scorn. 
•'You  have  been  expelled  from  college;  you  have 
wasted  your  whole  opportunities  of  education ;  you 
have  thrown  away  the  boundless  sums  which  1  have 
spent  in  your  interest ;  you  have  lived  the  life  of  a 
puppy  and  a  fool,  and  now  you  come  back  in  the 
uttermost  disgrace,  with  your  name  involved  in  I  know 
not  what  infamy,  and  are  as  cool  about  it  as  if  you 
returned  to  announce  a  triumph." 

Not  deigning  a  word  more,  Sir  Rollo  turned  in- 
dignantly on  his  heel  and  left  Bruce  as  much  astounded 
by  so  unexpected  a  reception  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
trodden  on  a  snake.  He  relapsed  into  uncommon 
sheepishness,  and  hardly  knew  how  to  address  his 
mother,  who  sat  sobbing  in  her  arm-chair. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  he  said  at  last,  "  what  can  be 
the  matter,  that  I  am  met  by  such  tornadoes  as  my 
svelcome  on  returnino;?" 

"  Don't  ask  me,  Vyvyan.  Your  father  is  naturally 
angi'y  at  your  expulsion,  and  you  have  grieved  us  both. 
But,  dear  Vyvyan,  do  not  put  on  such  an  impertinent 
and  indifferent  manner;  it  annoys  Sir  Rollo  exceed- 
ingly. Do  submit  yourself,  my  dear  boy,  and  he  will 
soon  recover  his  usual  suavity." 

"But  I  never  saw  him  like  this  before." 

33 


386  SIR    ROLLO   BRUCE. 

"  No ;  these  violent  fits  of  temper  have  only  come 
over  him  of  late,  and  I  am  afraid  that  there  must  be 
Bome  cause  for  them  of  which  I  am  unaware." 

Bruce  sat  silent  and  unhappy.  Expelled  from  col- 
lege>  and  insulted  (as  he  called  it)  at  home,  he  felt 
truly  alone  and  miserable.  He  went  up  to  his  own 
room,  supped  there,  ard  coming  down  next  morning  to 
the  awkward  meeting  with  his  parents,  spoke  a  few 
words  of  regret  about  his  position.  Sir  Rollo  barely 
listened  to  them,  breakfasted  in  silence,  and  imme- 
diately afterwards  set  out  for  his  ofiice.  He  did  not 
return  till  late  in  the  evening,  and  continued  for  some 
time  to  spend  the  days  in  this  manner,  seeing  next  to 
nothing  of  his  wife  and  son,  but  sternly  forbidding  any 
festivities  or  balls. 

One  morning  he  called  Vyvyan  into  his  study  be- 
fore starting.  Bruce  laid  aside  his  novel,  yawned,  and 
followed. 

"  Pray,  sir,  do  you  intend  to  spend  all  your  time  in 
reading  novels?"  said  Sir  Rollo. 

"  There's  nothing  else  for  me  to  do  that  I  see." 

"  Very  well.  If  you  suppose  that  you  are  going  to 
spend  your  days  in  idleness,  you  are  mistaken.  I  give 
you  a  week  to  choose  some  occupation  that  will  not 
involve  me  in  further  outlay." 

Bruce  took  out  his  embroidered  pocket-handkerchief, 
redolent  with  scent,  and  blew  his  nose  affectedly.  On 
doing  so,  an  unopened  envelope  dropped  on  the  floor, 
out  of  his  pocket ;  picking  it  up,  he  glanced  at  it,  tore 
it  across,  and  flung  it  into  the  fire.  Sir  Rollo  im- 
medJately  picked  up  the  pieces  with  the  tongs,  and 
opened  it. 


A    SCENE.  387 

"  I  see  that  this  is  a  bill,  and  I  shall  proceed  to  look 
at  it." 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,"  said  Bruce,  in  an  indifferent 
tone — "it's  from  a  dun." 

It  was  a  tailor's  bill  which  had  been  sent  after  him, 
and  it  amounted  to  .£150. 

"  And  you  suppose,"  said  his  father,  "  that  I  am 
going  to  pay  these  debts  for  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  certainly — some  day.  Let  the  dogb 
wait." 

Sir  Rollo  seemed  on  the  point  of  a  great  burst  of 
wrath ;  his  lips  positively  quivered  and  his  eye  flashed 
with  passion.  He  controlled  himself,  however,  darted  at 
his  son  a  look  of  scorn,  and  left  the  room.  A  note 
that  evening  informed  Lady  Bruce  that  business  de- 
tained him  from  home,  and  that  he  might  not  return 
for  some  days. 

A  week  after  Bruce  received  a  letter  with  foreign 
postmarks,  to  the  following  effect : — 

"  Dear  Vyvyan — By  the  time  you  receive  this,  1 
shall  be  on  the  continent,  far  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
law. 

"  I  have  been  living  for  the  last  ten  years  on  tlie 
money  I  embezzled  from  the  company  whose  affairs  I 
managed.  The  fraud  cannot  fail  of  being  detected 
almost  immediately. 

*'  I  feel  acutely  the  position  in  which  I  am  forced  tc 
leave  your  mother.  I  do  not  pity  you  in  the  least.  I 
gave  you  the  amplest  opportunity  to  save  yourself  from 
this  ruin,  if  you  had  not  been  a  fool.  You  cared  for 
iiothing    and   for   nobody  but   yourself.      You   never 


388  A    DISCOVERY. 

worked  hard,  though  you  knew  it  to  be  m j  wish  ;  you 
assumed  an  air  of  spurious  independence,  and  affected 
the  fine  gentleman.  Your  conceit  and  idleness  -will  b<3 
their  own  punishment.  You  have  made  your  own  bed; 
now  you  will  have  to  lie  in  it. 

"RoLLo  Bruce." 

The  truth  was  soon  known  to  the  world.  Number- 
less executions  were  put  into  Vyvyan  House.  Every 
available  fragment  of  property  was  seized  by  Sir 
Rollo's  creditors ;  and  as  Lady  Bruce's  pi'ivate  for- 
tune had  long  been  spent,  she  and  her  son  were  left 
all  but  penniless.  The  gay  and  gilded  friends  of  their 
summer  hours  were  the  first  to  desert  them,  and  Sir 
Rollo's  wickedness  had  created  such  a  gust  of  indio;na- 
tion,  that  few  came  forward  to  lend  his  family  the 
slightest  assistance. 

When  Bruce  found  himself  in  this  most  distressing 
position — when  he  sat  with  his  mother  in  shame  and 
retirement  in  obscure  lodgings,  which  had  been  taken 
for  them  by  one  of  their  former  servants,  and  with  no 
immediate  means  of  livelihood — then  first  the  folly  of 
his  past  career  revealed  itself  to  his  mind  in  its  full 
proportions.  Lady  Bruce's  health  was  dreadfully  af- 
fected by  the  mental  anguish  through  which  she  had 
passed,  and  it  became  a  positive  necessity  that  Bruce 
should  work  with  his  head  or  hands  to  earn  their  daily 
bread. 

He  found  no  difficulty  in  procuring  a  temporary 
post  in  a  lawyer's  office  as  a  clerk.  The  drudgery  waa 
terrible.  Daily,  from  nine  in  the  morning  to  six  in 
the  evening,  he  found  himself  chained  to  the  dosk,  and 


NECESSITY   FOR   TOIL BEREAVEMENT.  38ij 

jlligecl  to  go  through  the  dullest  and  most  mechanical 
routine,  the  only  respite  being  half  an  hour  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  which  he  spent  in  dining  at  an  eating-house. 
ITursed  on  the  lap  of  luxury,  habituated  to  the  choicest 
viands,  and  accustomed  to  find  every  whim  fulfilled, 
this  kind  of  life  was  intolerable  to  him.  The  steaming 
recesses  of  a  squalid  eating-house  gave  him  a  sensation 
of  loathing  and  sickness,  and  the  want  of  exercise  made 
him  look  haggard  and  wan.  In  vain  he  appealed  to 
men  who  had  called  themselves  his  father's  friends  ;  he 
found  to  his  cost  that  the  son  of  a  detected  swindler 
has  no  friends,  and  more  especially  if  his  own  life  have 
been  tainted  with  suspicion  or  dishonor.  Poor  Bruce 
was  driven  to  the  very  verge  of  despair. 

He  applied  for  a  situation  in  a  bank,  but  he  was 
informed  that  it  could  not  be  granted  him  unless  he 
could  obtain  a  certificate  of  good  character  from  his 
college,  which,  of  course,  was  out  of  the  question.  He 
tried  writing  for  the  press,  but  his  shallow  intellectual 
resources  soon  ran  dry.  The  pittance  he  could  thus 
earn  did  not  remunerate  him  for  the  toil  and  wasted 
health,  and  even  this  pittance  was  too  often  cruelly 
held  back.  He  made  applications  in  answer  to  all 
sorts  of  advertisements,  but  one  after  another  the  re- 
plies were  unfavorable,  until  his  whole  heart  died  within 
him.  No  intelligence  could  be  obtained  of  his  father's 
hiding-place,  and  before  a  year  had  elapsed  since  Sir 
Rollo's  bankruptcy  and  felony  had  been  made  known, 
Lady  Bruce  died  at  her  son's  lodgings,  worn  out  with 
misery  and  shame. 

This  climax  of  the  young  man  s  misfortunes  awoke 
at  last  the  long  dormant  sympathy  in  his  favor.     An 

33* 


i'^'J  THE    NYMPHOLEPSY    OF    REMEMBRANCE. 

«fFort  was  made  by  his  few  remaining  and  unalienated 
friends  to  provide  for  him  the  means  of  emigration, 
which  seemed  the  only  course  likely  to  give  him  once 
more  a  fair  start  in  life.  But  to  pay  his  passage,  and 
provide  him  with  the  means  of  settling  in  New  Zea- 
land required  a  considerable  sum,  and  Bruce  had  to 
suffer  for  weeks  the  agonies  of  hope  deferred.  And 
when  he  glanced  over  his  past  life,  he  found  nothing 
to  help  h'm.  He  could  not  look  back  with  any  com- 
fort; the  past  was  haunted  by  the  phantoms  of  regret. 
His  viol/.nt  and  v/illful  infancy,  his  proud,  passionate 
boyhood,  his  wandering  and  wicked  youth,  afforded  him 
few  gr'ien  spots  whereon  the  eye  of  retrospect  could 
rest  v,'lth  calm.  As  the  wayworn  traveler  who  on 
some  bright  day  sat  down  by  the  fringed  bank  of  clear 
fountain  or  silver  lake,  and  while  he  leant  to  look  into 
its  waters,  was  suddenly  dazzled  into  madness  by  the 
flashing  upward  upon  him,  from  the  unknown  depths, 
of  some  startling  image,  so  Bruce,  as  he  rested  by  the 
dusty  wayside  of  life,  and  gazed  into  the  dark  abysses 
of  recollection,  was  startled  and  horrified,  with  a  more 
fearful  nympholepsy,  by  the  crowding  images  and  sullen 
glare  of  unforgotten  and  half  forgotten  sins. 

But  in  dwelling  on  his  past  life,  Bruce  bethought 
him  that  he  might  still  find  friends  at  school ;  and  not 
long  after  his  mother's  funeral,  he  determined  to  call 
on  his  old  masters,  and  get  such  pecuniary -aid  as  he 
could  from  them  and  his  school-boy  friends.  To  come 
to  such  a  resolution  was  the  very  bitterness  of  humilia- 
tion ;  but  Bruce  was  now  all  eagerness  to  escape  fronj 
England,  and  recommence  a  new  life  in  other  lands 

He  took  a  third  class  ticket  to  Harton,  and  when  hfl 


NOW   AND    THEN.  3D1 

arrived  there,  was  so  overcome  ■v»ith  shame  that  he 
well-nigh  determined  to  return  by  the  next  train,  and 
leave  the  town  unvisited.  at  whatever  cost ;  hut  on  in- 
quiry he  found  that  the  next  train  would  not  start  for 
some  hours,  and  meanwhile  he  fully  expected  to  be 
seen  and  recognized  by  those  whom  he  had  known 
before.  And  yet  it  was  not  easy,  in  that  stooping 
figure,  with  the  pale  cheek  and  dimmed  eye,  to  recog- 
nize the  bright  and  audacious  Vyvyan  Bruce,  who  had 
been  captain  of  Harton  barely  three  years  before. 
Poverty,  ruin,  disappointment,  confinement,  guilt,  and 
sorrow  had  done  their  work  with  marvelous  quickness. 

Nerving  himself  to  the  effort,  he  turned  his  face 
toward  Harton,  and  walked  slowly  up  the  hill.  The 
reminiscences  w^hich  the  Avalk  recalled  were  not  happy 
— rather  far  from  happy.  It  was  not  because  formerly 
when  he  was  a  flattered,  and  rich,  and  handsome,  and 
popular  Harton  boy,  all  the  prospects  of  his  life  had 
looked  as  bright  as  now  they  seemed  full  of  gloom ;  it 
was  not  that  then  both  his  parents  were  living,  and 
now  one  was  dead,  the  other  disgraced ;  it  was  not 
that  then  he  was  full  of  health  and  vigor,  and  now  was 
^eeble  and  wearied  ;  it  was  not  that  then  he  seemed  to 
have  many  friends,  and  now  he  hardly  knew  of  one ; — 
no,  it  was  none  of  these  things  that  afi"ected  him  most 
deeply  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  well-known  chapel, 
and  strolled  up  the  familiar  hill ;  but  it  was  the  thought, 
the  bitter  thought,  the  cursed  thought  that  there,  as  at 
Camford,  the  voice  of  his  brother's  blood  ivas  crying 
against  him  from  the  ground. 

By  the  time  he  read  ed  the  school  buildings,  it  hap- 
pened to  be  just  one  o'clock,  and,  from  the  various 


80:2  WALTER    THORNLEV. 

Bcliool-rooms,  the  boys  were  pouring  out  in  guy  and 
noisy  throngs.  The  faces  were  new  to  him  for  the 
most  part,  and  at  first  he  began  to  fancy  that  he  should 
recognize  no  one.  But  at  last  he  observed  a  boy  look- 
ing hard  at  him,  who  at  length  came  up  and  shook  him 
warmly  by  the  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Bruce  ?  Ah,  I  see  you  don't 
remember  me ;  true,  I  was  only  in  the  shell  when  you 
left,  but  you  ought  at  least  to  remember  your  old  fags." 
The  change  of  countenance  between  fifteen  and 
eighteen  is,  however,  very  great,  and  it  was  not  without 
an  effort  that  Bruce  recalled  in  the  tall  strong  fellow 
who  was  talking  to  him  his  quondam  fag,  little  Walter 
Thornley,  now  in  his  turn  captain  of  the  eleven,  and 
head  of  the  school,  whose  admiration  of  Bruce  we  have 
already  recorded  in  the  first  chapter  of  this  eventful 
history. 

"Where  are  you  oif  to  now?"  said  Thornley. 

"  To  the  doctor's." 

"  Well,  you'll  come  and  see  me  afterwards  ?" 

Bruce  promised,  and  then  walked  to  see  the  doctor, 
and  his  old  tutor.  To  both  he  opened  his  piteous  tale, 
and  both  of  them  gave  him  the  most  generous  and 
liberal  assistance ;  they  promised  also  to  procure  him 
Buch  other  aid  as  might  lie  in  their  power.  A  little 
lighter  in  heart,  he  went  to  pay  his  visit  to  Thornley, 
whom  he  found  occupying  his  old  rooms.  As  Bruce 
recrossed  his  familiar  threshold,  the  contrasts  of  past 
and  present  were  almost  too  much  for  him,  and  he 
found  it  difficult  to  restrain  his  tears.  He  stayed  but 
a  short  time,  and  then  returned  to  London  to  iiis  pool 
and  lonely  lodgings. 


A   SUBSCRIPTION.  393 

Walter  Thornlej  heard  his  story  from  the  tutor,  and 
besides  getting  a  large  subscription  for  him  among  his 
own  friends,  wrote  to  ask  if  Julian  could  procure  for 
the  emigrant  any  assistance  in  Camford.  Julian  re- 
ceived the  letter  about  the  middle  of  the  October  term 
in  his  third  year,  and  it  ran  thus : — 

"  Dear  Home — Beyond  knowing  by  rumor  that  I 
am  head  of  the  school,  you  will,  I  suppose,  hardly  re- 
member a  boy  who  was  so  low  in  the  school  as  I  Avas 
when  you  were  monitor.  But  though  you  will  perhaps 
have  forgotten  me,  I  have  not  forgotten  you,  or  the 
many  kind  acts  I  experienced  from  you  and  Lillyston 
when  I  was  a  little  new  fellow.  Remembering  these,  I 
am  emboldened  to  write,  and  ask  if  you  or  any  of  the 
old  Hartonians  are  willing  to  assist  poor  Bruce  to 
settle  in  New  Zealand,  now  that  he  has  no  chance  of 
succeeding  well  in  England  ?  I  am  sure  that  you  per- 
sonally will  be  glad  of  any  opportunity  to  help  an  old 
Bchool-fellow  in  his  distress  and  difficulty,  for  report  tells 
me  that  Julian  Home  is  as  kind  hearted  and  generous 
as  he  was  when  he  won  the  Newry  scholarship  at  Harton. 
Believe  me  to  be,  my  dear  Home,  yours  very  truly, 

"Walter  Thornley." 

Julian  had  almost  forgotten  the  very  existence  of 
Thornley  when  this  letter  recalled  him  to  his  mind ; 
but  it  was  one  of  the  pleasures  of  Julian's  life  constantly 
to  receive  letters  of  this  kind  from  former  school-fellows, 
thanking  him  for  past  kindnesses  of  which  he  was  wholly 
unconscious  from  the  simple  and  natural  manner  in 
which  they  had  been  done.     It  need  hardly  be  said 


394  EMIGRATION. 

that  he  at  once  complied  with  the  request  which  the 
letter  contained,  and  that  (next  to  De  Vayne's)  his 
own  was  the  largest  contribution  toward  the  handsomn 
sum  which  the  Hartonians  and  other  St.  Werner's  men 
cheerfully  subscribed  to  assist  their  former  comrade  in 
his  hour  of  need. 

To  avoid  all  unnecessary  wounding  of  Bruce's  feel- 
ings, the  money  thus  collected  was  transmitted  to  the 
doctor  to  be  placed  at  Bruce's  disposal.  It  completed 
the  sum  requisite  for  his  outfit,  and  there  was  no  longer 
any  obstacle  in  the  way  of  his  immediate  departure 
from  England.  He  at  once  booked  his  passage  by 
an  emigrant  ship,  and  sailed.  The  day  after  his 
departure,  Julian  received  from  him  the  following 
letter : — 

"  Dear  Julian — Although  you  are  one  of  those  who 
would  '  do  good  by  stealth,  and  blush  to  find  it  fame,' 
I  am  not  ignorant  of  the  debt  of  gratitude  which  I  owe 
to  you  for  providing  me  with  the  means  of  recovering 
my  fortunes,  and  beginning  life  afresh  in  another 
hemisphere. 

"  Our  lots  in  life,  since  at  Harton  we  ran  a  neck 
and  neck  race,  have  been  widely  different,  and  while 
the  happy  months  have  been  rolling  for  you  on  silver 
wheels,  and  the  happy  hours  speeding  by  you  with 
white  feet,  to  me  Time  has  been 

'  A  maniac  scattering  dust, 
And  Life  a  Fury  slinging  flame.' 

HoTV  much  I  have  gone  through  in  the  last  year — the 
accumulated  agony  of  remorse,  bereavement,  and  ruin 


BRUCE'S    LETTER.  395 

— no  human  soul  can  tell.  No  wonder  my  bark  was 
wrecked  after  such  maJ  and  careless  navigation  ;  but, 
thank  God,  the  blow  of  the  tempest  that  staggered  and 
shattered  it,  and  drove  it  on  the  reefs,  has  not  sunk  it 
utterly,  and  now,  like  a  waif  or  stray,  it  is  being  carried 
to  be  refitted  across  a  thousand  leagues  of  sea. 

"  I  am  not  the  Bruce  you  knew,  but  a  wiser,  sadder, 
and  better  man.  I  have  not  yet  lost  all  hope.  The 
old  book  of  my  life  was  so  smutched  and  begrimed — 
torn,  dogs-eared,  and  scrawled  over  —  that  it  was 
scarcely  worth  while  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  I  have 
rather  began  a  new  volume  altogether,  and  trust,  by 
God's  blessing,  that  when  '  Finis'  comes  to  be  written 
in  it,  some  few  of  the  pages  will  bear  reperusal. 

"  '  De  Vayne  !'  how  that  name  haunts  me  ;  how  full 
it  is  of  horror — De  Vavne  and  Hazlet :  and  vet  I  hear 
that  both  have  contributed  to  my  help.  It  gives  me 
new  life  to  know  that  human  hearts  can  be  so  full  of 
forgiveness  and  of  love. 

"  Starting  almost  for  another  world — without  for- 
tune, without  friends,  with  nothing  but  head  and  heart, 
the  wreck  of  what  I  was — I  sometimes  feel  so  sad  that 
I  could  wish  myself  out  of  the  world  altogether.  Fot 
give  nie,  then,  for  once  more  bringing  before  you  a 
name  which  vou  can  only  connect  with  the  most  un- 
pleasant  and  somber  thoughts,  and  pray  for  me  that 
my  eiforts  (this  time  they  are  genuine  and  sincere)  to 
.improve  my  life,  my  talents,  and  my  fortune  may  be 
crowned  with  success. 

"We  sail  in  an  hour  or  sooner,  for  1  hear  their 
weighing  anchor  now.  Good-by  !  Accept  my  warmest 
thanks  for  all  your   kindnesses,   and   my  wishes  (ah ! 


39(5  THE    MORAL A    PRAYER. 

that  thej  were  worthier  !)  for  your  happiness  in  life,  and 
believe  me,  my  dear  Julian,  your  sincere  and  grateful 
friend, 

"  Vyvyan  Bruce. 
"P.S. — I  am  positively  alone;  not  one  soul  is  here 
even  to   bid   me   good-by.      Eheu !  jam  serus   vitam 
ingemo  relictam  !" 

Julian  read  the  letter  many  times ;  he  was  touched 
by  its  delicate  and  eloquent  sorrow — its  fine  and 
chastened  thoughtfulness.  He  was  no  longer  in  a 
mood  to  work,  but  closed  his  books,  and  watched  the 
faces  in  the  fire.  One  thought  filled  him  with  joy  and 
thankfulness ;  it  was  the  thought  that,  though  of  his 
friends  and  acquaintances  so  many  had  gone  wrong, 
yet  God  was  leading  them  back  again,  by  rough  and 
thorny  roads  it  might  be,  but  still  by  sure  roads  to  the 
right  path  once  more.  Hazlet,  Bruce,  Brogten — above 
all,  his  friend  and  brother  Kennedy — were  returning 
to  the  fold  they  had  deserted,  were  learning  that  fur 
him  who  has  sinned  and  suifered,  repentance  is  the 
WORK  OF  LIFE.  And  as  these  thoughts  floated  through 
Julian's  mind,  the  words  of  an  old  prayer  came  back 
upon  his  lips, — 

"  That  it  may  please  Thee  to  strengthen  such  as  do 
stand  ;  and  to  comfort  and  help  the  weak  hearted  ;  and 
tc  ''-aise  up  them  that  fall ;  and  finally,  to  beat  dowc 
batan  under  our  feet." 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

A    QUIET    PROSPECT. 

"  Patit  omnibus  Veritas;  nondum  est  prorsus  occupata." 

Sen.  Ep.  zxziii. 

Julian's  third  year  at  Camford  was  by  no  means 
the  happiest  period  of  his  life  there,  because  the  sad 
absence  of  Kennedy  and  De  Vayne  made  a  gap  in  his 
circle  of  friends,  which  could  not  easily  be  filled  up ; 
but  this  was  the  annus  mirahilis  of  his  university 
career.  He  gained  prize  after  prize ;  he  was  alwaya 
first  class  in  the  college  examinations  ;  he  won  the 
chancellor's  medals  for  Latin  and  English  verse,  and, 
indeed,  almost  divided  with  Owen  the  honors  of  the 
place.  To  crown  all,  he  gained  the  Ireford  University 
scholarship,  which  Owen  had  won  the  year  before. 

Of  all  the  men  of  his  year,  he  was  the  most  honored 
and  respected  ;  he  wore  the  weight  both  of  his  honors 
and  his  learning  •'  lightly  like  a  flower,"  and  there  was 
a  graceful  humility,  joined  with  his  self-dependence, 
which  won  every  heart,  and  prevented  that  jealousy 
which  sometimes  accompanies  success. 

The  most  important  event  in  his  intellectual  prog- 
ress was  the  attention  which  he  began  to  turn  at  this 
lime  to  biblical  and  theological  studies.  He  was  thank- 
ful in  later  years  that  he  had  deferred  such  inquiries 
to  a  time  when  he  was  capacitated  for  them  by  a  calm 

84  (397^ 


398  "truth  is  the  great  Tiirxa  — 

and  sound  judgment,  and  a  solid  basis  of  linguistic  and 
historical  knowledfj-e.  He  had  ahvavs  looked  forward 
to  holy  orders,  and,  regarding  the  life  of  a  clergyman 
as  his  appointed  work,  he  considered  that  an  honest,  a 
critical,  and  an  impartial  study  of  the  Bible  was  his 
first  duty.  In  setting  about  it,  he  came  to  it  as  a  little 
child  ;  all  he  sought  for  was  the  simple  truth,  uncrushed 
by  human  traditions,  unmingled  with  human  dogmas, 
untrammeled  by  human  interpretations,  unadulterated 
by  human  systems.  He  found  that  he  had  a  vast 
amount  to  unlearn,  and  saw  clearly  that  if  he  fear- 
lessly pursued  his  inquiries,  they  would  lead  him  so  fai 
from  the  belief  of  popular  ignorance  as  very  probably 
to  bar  all  worldly  success  in  the  sacred  profession  which 
he  had  chosen.  But  he  knew  that  the  profession  was 
sacred,  and,  fearless  by  nature,  he  determined  to  seek 
for  truth,  and  truth  only,  honestly  following  the  prayer- 
ful conclusions  of  his  clearest  and  most  deliberate  judg- 
ment. Even  in  these  early  days  the  freedom  and  hon- 
esty of  his  research  drew  on  him  slight  sibilations  of 
those  whose  religion  was  shallow  and  sectarian.  In 
after-years  they  were  destined  to  bring  on  him  open 
and  positive  persecution. 

Not  that  Julian  was  ever  in  the  least  degree  ob 
trusive  in  stating  his  beliefs,  when  they  widely  and 
materially  differed  from  the  expressed  opinions  of  the 
majority  ;  except,  indeed,  in  the  cases  when  such  opin- 
ions appeared  to  him  dishonest  or  dangerous.  He  was 
scrupulously  careful  not  to  wound  the  conscience  of 
those  who  would  have  been  unable  to  understand  the 
ground  of  his  arguments,  even  when  they  could  not 
resist  their  logical  statement ;  and  in  whom  long  cus 


LET  man's  life  be  true."  399 

torn  was  so  inveterate,  that  the  weed  of  system  could 
not  be  torn  out  of  their  hearts  without  endangering 
the  flower  of  belief.  With  men  like  Hazlet — I  mean 
the  reformed  and  now  sincere  Hazlet — he  either  con- 
fined himself  wholly  to  subjects  on  which  differences 
were  impossible,  or,  if  questioned,  stated  his  views 
with  caution  and  consideration.  It  was  only  with  the 
noisy  and  violent  upholders  of  long-grounded  error — 
error  which  they  were  too  feeble  to  maintain  except  by 
mean  invective  or  ignorant  declamation — that  Julian 
used  the  keen  edge  of  his  sarcasm,  or  the  weighty 
sword  of  his  moral  indignation.  He  was  not  the  man 
to  bow  down  before  the  fool's-cap  of  tyrannous  and 
blatant  ignorance.  If  he  could  have  chosen  one  utter- 
ance from  the  Holy  Scriptures,  which  to  him  was  more 
precious  in  its  full  meaning  than  another,  it  was  that 
promise,  rich  with  inexhaustible  blessing,  "  And  ye 
shall  know  the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall  make  vou 
free." 

Perhaps  there  is  no  greater  want  in  this  age  than  a 
full,  fair,  fear^less  religio  clerici;  the  men  who  could 
write  it,  dare  not ;  and  the  men  who  dare  write  it,  can- 
not. They  say  the  age  is  not  ripe  for  it ;  and  if  they 
mean  that  it  would  cause  violent  offense  to  the  po- 
tent rulers  of  fashionable  religious  dogmatism,  they  are 

right.     But 1  wander  from  my  theme,  and  meddle 

with  subjects  which  this  is  not  the  place  to  touch  upon. 

The  close  of  Julian's  undergraduate  life  was  as  hon- 
orable  as  its  promise  had  been.  He  obtained  a  bril- 
liant first  class,  and  was  bracketed  with  Owen  as  the 
best  classic  of  his  year.     Lillyston  also  distinguished 


400  CHOOSING    A    PROFESSION. 

himself,  and  all  three  determined  to  read  for  fellow* 
ships,  which,  before  a  year  was  over,  they  had  the 
honor  to  obtain. 

Meanwhile  a  circumstance  had  happened  which 
changed  the  course  of  Kennedy's  intentions.  After 
his  conversation  with  Violet,  he  had  often  thought  of 
his  plans  for  the  future,  and  written  to  her  about  them. 
Reconciled  to  the  plan  of  returning  to  Camford  after 
the  year  of  his  rustication,  he  was  now  trying  to  settle 
his  future  profession.  His  way  seemed  by  no  means 
clear ;  he  had  never  thought  of  being  a  clergyman, 
and  now,  more  than  ever,  deemed  himself  unfitted  for 
Buch  a  life.  The  long  tedious  delay  of  the  bar,  to  a 
man  without  any  special  interest ;  the  sickness  of  hope 
deferred  during  the  prime  years  of  life  ;  the  weariness 
of  a  distasteful  study,  and  the  heavy  trial  of  dusky 
chambers  in  a  city,  to  a  man  who  loved  the  sea  and 
the  country  with  a  passionate  love,  deterred  him  from 
choosing  the  law.  He  had  no  liking  for  the  army,  ex- 
cept in  time  of  war ;  the  life  of  the  officers  whom  he 
knew  was  not  altogether  to  his  mind,  and  he  wag 
neither  inclined  to  gayety  nor  fond  of  an  occupation 
which  offered  so  many  temptations  to  listlessness  and 
indolence.  There  was  no  immediate  necessity  to  decide 
finally,  because,  in  any  case,  he  meant  to  take  his  de- 
gree, and  looked  forward  with  some  hope,  after  hi8 
year  of  unswerving  diligence  in  the  retirement  of 
Orton,  to  honors  in  the  Tripos  and  the  pleasant  aid 
of  a  St.  Werner's  fellowship  as  the  crown  of  his  career 
But  on  the  whole  he  began  to  think  that  he  might  be 
both  useful  and  successful  as  a  physician.     He  had  a 


A    NEW    FIELD.  401 

deep  reverence  for  this  earthly  tabernacle  of"  the  im- 
mortal soul,  and  a  hallowed  and  reverend  curiosity 
about  that  "harp  of  a  thousand  strings/'  which,  if  it 
be  untuned  by  sickness,  mars  every  other  melody  of 
life.  Violet  entered  into  all  his  views,  and  they  determ- 
ined to  leave  the  matter  thus  until  Kennedy  should 
have  donned  his  B.A.  gown. 

But  about  this  period  that  public  step  was  taken  of 
throwing  open  to  competition  the  Indian  civil  service 
appointments,  which  has  been  of  such  enormous  advant- 
age to  the  "  middle  classes"  of  England,  by  offering 
to  them,  as  the  reward  of  industry,  the  opportunity 
of  a  new  and  honorable  profession,  and  which  seems 
likely  to  be  prolific  of  good  results  to  the  future  of 
our  empire  in  the  East.  Directly  Kennedy  saw  the 
announcement  of  the  examination,  he  grasped  with  avid- 
ity the  chance  of  a  provision  for  life  which  it  afforded, 
and  easily  obtained  the  assent  both  of  his  own  and  of 
Julian's  family  to  offer  himself  as  a  candidate.  Of 
course,  they  contemplated  Avith  sorrow  the  prospect 
of  so  long  a  separation  as  the  plan  involved,  but  they 
saw  that  he  himself  was  strongly  desirous  to  win  their 
approval  of  his  proposition,  and  of  course  his  wishes 
were  Violet's  too. 

So  Kennedy  went  in  for  the  civil  service  examin- 
ation, and  acquitted  himself  so  admirably,  that  hia 
name  headed  the  list  of  successful  competitors,  and  he 
was  told  that  he  must  prepare  himself  to  leave  Eng- 
land in  a  year  for  the  post  to  which  they  appointed 
him. 

This  happened  about  the  time  that  Julian  took  his 


402  A    LITTLE    VILLAGE. 

degree,  an  \,  before  the  year  was  over,  Julian  had  been 
elected  a  fellow,  and  the  living  of  Elstan  was  offered 
to  him.  Being  of  small  value — .£200  a  year — it  had 
been  rejected  by  all  the  fellows  of  older  standing,  and 
had  "come  down"  to  Julian,  who,  to  the  surprise  of 
his  friends,  left  Cam  ford  and  accepted  it  without 
hesitation. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Admer,  "how  in  the 
world  can  you  be  so  insane  as  to  bury  yourself  alive, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  in  so  obscure  a  place  as  the 
vicarage  of  Elstan?" 

"  Oh,  Elstan  is  a  charming  place,"  said  Julian;  "1 
visited  it  before  accepting  it,  and  found  it  to  be  one  of 
those  dear  little  English  villages  in  the  greenest  fields 
of  Wiltshire.  The  house  is  a  very  pretty  one,  and 
the  parish  is  in  perfect  order.  My  predecessor  was 
an  excellent  man ;  his  population,  of  one  thousand 
souls,  were,  perhaps,  as  well  attended  to  as  any  in  all 
England." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Admer,  impatiently,  "  I  know 
all  that ;  but  who  Avill  ever  hear  of  you  again,  if  you 
go  and  become  what  Sydney  Smith  calls  '  a  kind  of 
holy  vegetable'  in  the  cabbage-gardens  of  a  Wiltshire 
hamlet  ?" 

"  Why,  what  would  you  have  m.e  do,  Mr,  Admer  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  stay  up  here,  edit  a  Greek 
play,  or  one  of  the  epistles  ;  bestir  yourself  for  some 
rising  university  member  in  a  contested  election ;  set 
yourself  to  get  a  bishopric  or  a  deanery ;  you  could 
easily  do  it  if  you  tried.  I'll  give  you  a  receipt  for  it 
any  day  you  like.      Or  go  to  some  London  churchj 


THE    IDOL    OF    SUCCESS.  40.*^ 

writh  such  sermons  as  you  could  preach,  you  might 
have  London  at  your  heels  in  no  time ;  and,  as  you 
would  superadd  learning  to  effectiveness,  your  fortune 
would  be  made." 

Julian  was  sorry  to  hear  him  talk  like  this ;  it  was 
the  language  of  a  disappointed  and  half  believing 
man." 

"I  don't  care  for  such  aims,"  he  said.  "A  mere 
popular  preacher  I  would  not  be;  and,  as  for  prefer- 
ment, it  doesn't  depend  much  on  me,  but,  for  the  most 
part,  on  purely  accidental  causes.  All  I  care  for,  at 
present,  is  to  be  useful  and  happy.  Obscurity  is  no 
trial  to  me;  neither  success  nor  failure  can  make  me 
different  from  what  I  am." 

"  Well  then,  at  least,  write  a  book,  or  something  to 
keep  yourself  in  men's  memory." 

"  I  don't  feel  inclined.  There  are  too  many  books 
in  the  world,  and  I  have  nothing  particular  to  say. 
Besides,  the  annoyance  and  spite  to  which  an  author 
subjects  himself  are  endless — to  hear  ignorant,  and, 
often,  malicious  criticisms  ;  to  see  his  views  misrepre- 
sented, his  motives  calumniated,  and  his  name  aspersec' 
No,  for  the  present,  I  prefer  the  peace  and  the  dignity 
of  silence." 

"  What  on  earth  will  you  find  to  do,  then,  if  you  ha^e 
no  ambition  ?" 

"Nay,  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I'm  so  vir- 
tuous, or  so  phlegmatic,  as  to  have  no  ambition.  I 
have  a  passionate  ambition,  whether  known  or  un- 
known, so  to  live  as  Jo  lead  on  the  coming  golden 
age,  and  prepare  the  next  generation  to  be  cruer  and 


404  THE    MAREIAGE    QUESTION. 

n-iser  than  ours.  If  it  be  mj  destiny  never  to  be  called 
to  a  wider  sphere  of  work  than  Elstan,  I  shall  be  eon- 
tent  to  do  it  there." 

"And  how  will  you  occupy  your  time?"  asked  Mr. 
Admer,  who  had  long  loved  Julian  too  well  even  to 
Bmile  at  what  were  to  himself  mere  unintelligible 
enthusiasms. 

"  Oh,  no  fear  on  that  score.  My  profession  will 
give  me  plenty  of  work;  besides,  what  is  the  use  of 
education,  if  it  be  not  to  render  it  impossible  for  a 
man  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  ennui  ?  Put 
me  alone  in  the  waiting-room  of  some  little  wayside 
station,  to  wait  three  hours  for  a  train,  and  I  should  still 
be  perfectly  happy,  even  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as 
a  book  to  be  got  for  miles." 

"  Well,  well,  if  you  must  vanish  to  Elstan,  do.  At 
any  rate,  remember  your  old  Cam  ford  friends,  and  let 
ns  hear  of  you  sometimes.  I  suppose  you'll  keep  ou 
your  fellowship  at  least  for  a  year." 

"Insidious  questioner,"  said  Julian  ;  "  no,  I  hope  to 
be  married  very  soon.  You  shall  come  down  and  see 
love  in  a  cottage." 

"Aha,  I  see  it  all  now!"  said  Mr.  Admer,  with  a 
sigh." 

"  Nay,  you  mustn't  sigh.  I  expect  to  be  congratu- 
lated, not  pitied,"  said  Julian,  gayly.  "  A  wife  will 
sweeten  all  the  cares  and  sorrows  of  life,  and,  instead 
of  withering  away  my  prime  in  selfish  isolation,  and 
gpending  these  still  half-youthful  years  in  loneliness, 
and  without  a  real  home,  I  shall  feel  myself  complete 
m  the  materials  of  happiness.  After  all,  ambition  snci 
as  yours  is  a  loveless  bride." 


HE  WHO  CARETH  FOR  SPARROWS.       406 

So  Julian  accepted  Elstan,  and  Lillyston  went  with 
him  to  London  to  help  him  in  selecting  furniture  for 
the  vicarage,  which  was  so  soon  to  receive  a  bride. 

"  Are  you  really  going  to  venture  on  matrimony  with 
only  ,£200  a  year?"  asked  Lillyston. 

"  I  have  some  more  of  my  own,  you  know,  Hugh ; 
Mr.  Garden's  legacy,  you  remember ;  but,  even  if  I 
hadn't,  I  would  still  marry  on  £100  a  year,  if  I 
wished  and  the  lady  consented." 

"  And  repent  at  leisure." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  If  I  were  a  man  to  whom  laven- 
der-colored kid  gloves  and  unlimited  eau-de-cologne 
were  necessaries  of  life,  it  might  be  folly  to  think  of  it. 
But  if  a  man  be  brave,  and  manly,  and  fearless  of  con- 
vention, let  him  marry,  by  all 'means,  and  not  make  his 
life  bitter  and  his  love  cold  by  long  delay." 

"  But  how  about  the  children  ?" 

"  Well,  it  may  be  fanaticism,  but  I  believe  that  God 
never  sends  a  soul  into  the  world,  without  providing 
ample  means  for  its  sustenance.  Of  course,  such  an 
assertion  would  set  the  tongues  of  our  would-be  philo- 
sophers wagging  in  scornful  cachination ;  but,  in  spite 
of  that,  I  do  believe  that  if  a  man  have  faith,  and  a 
strong  heart,  and  common  sense,  he  may  depend  upon 
it  his  children  will  not  starve.  Some  of  the  very  hap- 
piest people  I  know  are  to  be  found  among  the  large 
families  of  country  clergymen.  Besides,  very  often 
the  children  succeed  in  life,  and  improve  their  father's 
Dosition.  I  haven't  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  I  am 
dding  the  right  thing.  I  onlyAvish,  Hugh,  that  yoc 
would  follow  my  example." 


106  GJOOD-BY    TO 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,  some  day,"  said  Lillyston. 

"  And  meanwhile  you  Avill  be  my  bridegroom's  man^ 
will  you  not  ?" 

"Joyfully — if  it  be  only  to  see  Miss  Kennedy's  face 
again." 

"  And  do  you  know  that  Kennedy  is  to  be  married 
to  Violet  the  same  day  ?" 

"  Is  he  ?  happy  fellow  I  As  for  me,  I  am  going  to 
resign  my  fellowship,  and  to  make  myself  useful  at 
Lillyston  Court.     When  is  the  wedding  to  be  ?" 

"  Both  Aveddings,  you  mean,  Hugh.  On  the  tenth 
of  next  June,  at  Orton-on-the-Sea — the  loveliest  spot 
in  the  world,  I  think." 

So  in  due  time  Julian  packed  up  all  his  books  and 
prizes,  and  bade  farewelbto  his  friends,  and  turned  his 
back  on  Camford.  It  is  as  impossible  to  leave  one's 
college  without  emotion  as  it  is  to  enter  it,  and  the 
tears  often  started  to  Julian's  eyes  as  the  train  whirled 
him  off  to  Elstan.  He  had  cause,  if  any  man  ever  had, 
to  look  back  to  Camford  with  regret  and  love.  His 
course  had  been  singularly  successful,  singularly  happy. 
He  had  entered  St.  Werner's  as  a  sizar,  he  left  it  as  a 
fellow,  and  not 

"  With  academic  laurels  unbestowed." 

He  had  grown  in  calmness,  in  strength,  in  wisdom ;  ho 
had  learnt  many  practical  lessons  of  life  ;  he  had  gained 
new  friends,  without  losing  the  old.  He  had  learnt  to 
honor  all  men,  and  to  be  fearhss  for  the  truth.  Hia 
mind  had  become  a  well-managed  instrument,  vfhich  h6 


CAMFORD.  407 

conld  apply  to  all  purposes  of  discovery,  research,  .nui 
thouglit ;  lie  was  wiser,  better,  braver,  nearer  the  li^lit. 
In  a  word,  he  had  learnt  the  great  purpose  of  life  — 
sympathy  and  love  to  further  man's  interest — faith  and 
prayer  to  live  ever  for  God's  glory.  And  not  a  few  of 
these  lessons  he  owed  to  his  college,  to  its  directing 
influence,  its  ennobling  associations,  its  studies — all 
bent  toward  that  which  is  permanent  and  eternal,  not 
to  the  transitory  and  superficial.  To  the  latest  day 
of  his  life,  the  name  of  St.  Werner's  remained  to  Julian 
Home  an  incentive  to  all  that  is  noble  and  manly  in 
human  effort.  He  felt  the  same  duty  with  regard  to  it 
as  the  generous  scion  of  an  illustrious  house  feels  toward 
the  ancient  name  which  he  has  inherited,  and  the  noble 
lineage  whence  he  has  sprung. 

The  few  months  which  were  to  elapse  before  his 
marriage,  Julian  spent  in  preparing  the  vicarage  for 
his  young  betrothed,  and  he  stored  it  with  everything 
which  could  delight  a  simple  yet  refined  and  educated 
taste.  There  was  an  indefinable  charm  about  it — the 
charm  of  home.  You  felt  on  entering  it  that  its  owner 
destined  it  as  the  place  around  which  his  fondest  affec- 
tions were  to  center,  and  his  work  in  life  was  to  be 
done.  Julian  had  not  the  restless  mind  which  sighs  for 
continual  change  ;  happy  in  himself  and  his  own  re- 
sources, and  the  honest  endeavor  to  do  good,  the  glory 
of  the  green  fields,  the  changes  of  the  varying  year 
supplied  him  with  a  wealth  of  beauty  which  was  suf- 
ficient for  all  his  needs,  and  when — after  some  long 
day's  work  amid  the  cottages,  reading  to  the  sick  at 
their  lonely  bedsides,  listening  to  the  prattle  of  the 


i08  PEACE  OF  HEART. 

children  in  the  infant  schools,  talking  to  the  laborers 
as  they  rested  at  their  work — he  refreshed  himself  by 
a  gallop  across  the  free,  fresh  downs,  or  a  quiet  stroll 
under  the  rosy  apple-blossoms  of  his  orchard  or  garden, 
Julian  might  have  said  with  more  truth  than  raoat  men 
can,  that  he  was  a  happy  and  a  contented  mac. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

FAREWELL. 

"Heat  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells 

Oh  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  swells  !" 

Edgak  a.  Poe. 

Merrily,  merrily  rang  out  the  sweet  bells  of  Ortori' 
cn-the-Sea;  more  merrily  than  they  ever  rang  before; 
80  merrily  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  concentrate 
into  every  single  clash  and  clang  of  their  joyous  peal  a 
tumult  of  inexpressible  happiness  greater  than  they 
would  ever  be  able  to  enjoy  again.  If  you  look  up  at 
the  belfry,  you  will  see  them  swing  and  dance  in  a  very 
delirium  of  ecstasy,  such  as  made  everybody  laugh 
while  he  listened,  and  chased  away  the  possibility  of 
sorrow,  and  thrilled  the  very  atmosphere  with  an  im- 
pression of  hilarity  and  triumph. 

All  Orton  is  astir.  Mr.  Kennedy  is  the  squire  of 
the  parish,  and  the  villagers  may  well  love  him  as  they 
do.  The  son  and  daughter  of  the  squire  are  not  often 
married  on  the  same  day  ;  and  besides  the  double  wed- 
ding with  its  promise  of  an  evening  banquet,  and  dance 
on  the  hall  lawn  to  all  the  people  of  Orton,  Eva  and 
Edward  are  known  well  to  every  cottager,  and  loved 
as  well  as  known. 

35  (409^ 


410  DE    VAYNE. 

The  hall  is  quite  full,  and  the  village  mn  is  quite 
full,  and  all  the  neighboring  gentry  who  are  invited, 
are  hospitably  entertaining  such  members  of  the  two 
families  as  can  find  room  nowhere  else.  Never  had 
Orton  seen  such  grand  doings ;  the  very  stables  and 
coach-houses  are  insufficient  to  receive  the  multitude  of 
carriages. 

Several  St.  Wernerians  are  invited  ;  and  (as  both 
Julian  and  Kennedy  prefer  to  be  alone  on  that  morn- 
ing) Lillyston,  who  has  visited  the  place  before,  is 
lionizing  them  in  the  neighborhood,  and  with  Willie, 
Kennedy's  orphan  cousin,  rows  them  over  to  the  little 
islet  in  the  bay.  As  they  come  back,  the  hour  for  the 
wedding  approaches,  and  Lillyston  says  to  Owen, — 

"•  How  I  wish  De  Vayne  were  here !" 

"But  he  is  in  Florence,  is  he  not?"  says  Owen. 

They  have  hardly  spoken  when  a  carriage  with  a 
coronet  on  the  panels  dashes  up  to  the  Lion  inn  r  '^^ 
young  man  alights,  hands  out  a  lady,  and  enters  the 
inn. 

"Surely  that  must  be  De  Vayne  himself!"  says 
Suton,  running  forward.  Meanwhile  the  young  man, 
after  taking  the  lady  into  a  private  room,  asks  if  he 
may  see  Mr.  Home  or  Mr.  Kennedy,  and  is  shown  up 
to  the  parlor  in  which  they  are  sitting. 

"  De  Vayne  !"  they  both  exclaim  in  surprise. 

''Yes,  Julian!"  he  answered,  cheerily;  "I  only 
returned  from  Florence  two  days  ago,  heard  of  your 
marriage  from  the  Ildown  people,  and  determined  to 
come  with  my  mother  a  self-invited  guest." 

"Don't  fear  for  my  feelings,"  he  continued,  turning 
to  Kennedy.     "Nothing  is  so  useless  or  dangerous  as 


ANOTHER    VISITOR.  411 

DO  nurse  a  hopeless  love,  like  the  flame  burning  in  iha 
hearts  of  the  banqueters,  at  the  feast  of  Eblis.  No, 
Kennedy,  I  love  Violet,  but  only  as  a  sister  now,  and 
you  must  not  be  afraid  if  I  claim  one  kiss  after  the 
marriage  from  the  bride.  You  shall  have  the  same 
privilege  some  day  soon." 

"Your  coming  is  the  completion  of  my  happiness," 
sa^d  Kennedy,  cordially  shaking  his  hand.  "I  will 
run  and  tell  Violet  at  once,  lest  she  should  be  alarmed 
by  seeing  you." 

"  Yes,  and  to  show  her  why  we  may  continue  to 
have  communion  as  friends,  tell  her  that  there  is  a 
gentle  Florentine  girl,  with  dark  eyes,  and  dark  hair, 
and  a  sweet  voice,  who,  as  my  mother  will  bear  witness, 
has  promised  in  a  year's  time  to  leave  her  Casa  d'ora 
for  Uther  Hall,"  he  said,  smiling. 

They  took  him  down  to  see  the  others,  who  rejoiced 
to  see  him  nearly  as  much  as  they  did,  and  the  time 
sped  on  for  the  wedding  to  be  performed.  The  car- 
riages had  already  started  to  convey  the  bridegrooms 
and  their  friends  to  church,  when  another  carriage 
drove  rapidly  along  the  street,  carrying  another  most 
unexpected  guest. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Cyril  and  Frank  should 
come  down  to  Orton  on  the  morning  of  the  ceremony, 
as  there  was  a  difl^culty  in  finding  room  for  them.  It 
was  very  late,  and  they  were  beginning  to  be  afraid 
that  the  boys  had  missed  a  train,  and  would  not  arrive 
till  after  the  ceremony,  when  they  made  their  triumphant 
entry  into  Orton  in  a  carriage  by  the  side  of — Lady 
Vinsear ! 

Only  imagine !     Being  left  almost  alone  at  Ildown, 


112  LADY    VINSEAR. 

while  the  others  had  gone  to  Orton  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  the  marriage,  Cjril  had  audaciously  proposed 
to  his  brother  that,  as  it  was  through  them  that  Lady 
Vinsear's  wrath  had  been  kindled  against  Julian,  they 
should  go  over  and  see  whether  the  old  lady  would 
admit  them  into  her  presence,  or  in  any  way  suflFer 
herself  to  be  pacified.  The  proposal  was  quite  a  sudden 
one,  and  the  thought  had  only  come  into  Cyril's  hear'' 
because  he  had  nothing  else  to  do.  But  he  had  jo 
sooner  thought  of  it  than  he  determined  to  carry  it 
out.  He  felt  certain  that  Lady  Vinsear  could  not  be 
so  totally  unlike  his  late  father  as  to  have  become 
wholly  ill  natured  and  implacable,  and  he  was  sure  that 
no  harm  could  result  from  his  visit  even  if  no  good 
were  done. 

So  the  boys  drove  over  in  a  pony  chaise  to  Lonstead 
Abbey,  and,  knocking  at  the  door,  asked  if  Lady  Vin- 
sear was  at  home. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  servant,  opening  his  eyes  in 
astonishment  at  the  apparition  of  the  two  boys,  whom 
he  had  only  seen  as  children  four  years  before. 

"  Then  ask  if  she  will  see  Mr.  Cyril  and  Master 
Frank  Home.  Stop,  though ;  is  Miss  Sprong  at 
home?" 

"  Oh  no,  Master  Cyril ;  la  bless  you !  Miss  Sprong, 
sir,  has  gone  and  married  Farmer  Jones  this  yeai 
gone." 

"  Has  she  indeed  ?  Oh  then,  take  my  message, 
please,  James." 

They  had  come  at  the  right  moment.  In  the  large 
'Irawing-room  of  Lonstead  Abbey  Lady  Vinsear  was 
Bitting  with   no  companion  but  the  orphan  girl  of  a 


ALONE.  413 

villager,  to  whom  she  gave  a  home,  and  who  was  amus- 
ing herself  with  a  picture-book  on  a  low  stool  by  the 
fire ;  for  though  it  was  summer,  the  fire  was  lighted  to 
give  cheerfulness  to  the  room.  When  Miss  Sprong 
married  a  neighboring  farmer,  Lady  Vinsear  had  given 
her  a  handsome  dowry,  and  refused  ever  1»o  see  her 
again,  being  in  fact  heartily  tired  of  her  malice  and 
sycophancy,  and,  above  all,  resenting  the  new  breach 
which  she  had  caused  between  herself  and  her  brother's 
family.  Ever  since  her  quarrel  with  Julian,  Lady  Vin- 
sear had  bitterly  regretted  the  violence  which  had  cut 
off  from  her  that  natural  affection  to  which  she  had 
looked  as  the  stay  of  her  declining  years.  She  had 
grown  sadder  as  she  grew  older,  and  the  loneliness  of 
her  life  weighed  heavily  on  her  heart,  yet  in  her  ob- 
stinate pride  she  made  an  unutterable  resolve  never  to 
take  the  initiative  in  restoring  Julian  to  her  favor. 

And  as  she  sat  there  by  the  fire,  longing  in  her  secret 
soul  for  the  society  and  love  of  some  young  hearts 
of  her  own  kith  and  kin,  she  glanced  away  from  the 
uninteresting  little  girl  whom  she  had  taken  as  a  pro- 
t6g4  to  the  likeness  of  Julian's  bright  and  thoughtful 
boyish  features,  (which  still,  in  spite  of  Miss  Sprong, 
had  retained  a  place  over  the  mantle-piece,)  and  re- 
membered the  foolish  little  incident  which  had  led  to 
her  rejection  of  him  as  her  heir.  The  tears  started  to 
hei  eyes  as  she  thought  of  it,  and  wished  with  all  her 
heart  that  the  two  gay  and  merry  boys  whose  frolio 
had  caused  the  fracas  were  with  her  once  more.  How 
much  she  should  now  enjoy  the  pleasant  sound  of  theii 
young  voices,  and  how  gladly  she  Avould  join  in  thcii 
unrestrained  and  innocent  laughter  ! 

35* 


tl4  A    SURPRISE    AND 

So  when  the  bewildered  James  asked  in  his  never- 
varying  voice  "  whether  Master  Cyril  and  Fiank  Homfl 
micrht  see  her."  Ladv  Viusear  fancied  that  she  was 
seeing  in  a  dream  the  frlfiUment  of  her  unexpressed 
Tjishes,  and  rubbed  her  eyes  to  see  if  she  could  really 
be  wide  awake. 

"  What's  all  this,  James  ?  are  you  James,  or  am  I  in 
H  dream  ?" 

"James,  your  ladyship." 

"  And  do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me  that  my  nephews 
are  outside  ?" 

"Yes,  please  your  ladysliip." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  keep  them  there  a  minute  longer, 
James.  Run  along,  Annie,"  she  said  to  the  little  girl, 
"  it  is  time  for  you  to  be  in  bed." 

Annie  had  hardly  retired,  when — a  little  shyly — the 
boys  entered,  uncertain  of  their  reception.  But  Lady 
Vinsear  started  from  her  seat,  and  embraced  them  with 
the  utmost  affection. 

"My  dear  Cyril,"  she  said,  kissing  him  again,  "how 
tall  and  handsome  you  have  grown ;  and  Frankie,  too, 
you  are  the  image  of  Julian  when  he  was  your  age." 

The  boys  were  amazed  at  the  heartiness  with  which 
she  welcomed  them,  as  though  nothing  had  happened, 
and,  after  she  had  given  them  a  ca|)ital  supper,  she  said 
to  them:  "Now,  boys,  I  see  you  are  rather  puzzled  at 
me.  Never  mind  that ;  don't  think  of  what  has  hap- 
pened We  mean  all  to  be  friends  now.  And  now 
tell  me  all  about  Julian." 

They  found,  however,  that  Lady  Vinsear  knew  a 
good  deal  about  his  college  career  from  her  neighbor, 
Lord  De  Vayne,  who  had  kept  her  acquainted  with  all 


A    PROPOSAL.  415 

his  successes  and  honors  up  to  the  period  when  De 
Vayne  left  Uther  Hall,  Since  then  she  had  not  been 
able  to  gain  much  information  about  him,  and  had  not 
heard  the  news  either  of  his  fellowship,  his  approaching 
marriage,  or  his  acceptance  of  a  college  living. 

She  listened  eagerly  to  the  intelligence,  and  finally 
asked  if  he  knew  of  their  visit. 

"No,"  said  Cyril,  laughing ;  "neither  he  nor  any 
of  them.  Now,  Auni  Vinsear,  you  really  must  do  me 
a  favor.  You  know  Vi.  is  to  be  married  at  Orton  on 
the  same  day  as  Julian  ;  won't  you  come  with  us  to  the 
wedding,  and  surprise  them  all  ?  If  you  were  to  start 
by  an  early  train,  and  take  the  carriage  with  you,  we 
should  drive  up  in  time  for  the  ceremony,  and  it  would 
be  such  a  happy  joke  for  all  concerned." 

The  old  lady  was  delighted  with  the  plan.  Meeting 
on  such  an  occasion,  when  the  minds  of  all  were  so 
much  occupied,  would  avert  the  necessity  of  anything 
approaching  to  a  scene,  which  of  all  things  she  most 
dreaded.  She  felt  a  flood  of  new  interests,  occupations, 
and  hopes ;  she  made  the  boys  stay  with  her  until  the 
appointed  day,  and  looked  forward  to  Cyril's  triumph 
with  a  delight  which  made  her  happier  than  she  had 
been  for  many  a  long  year. 

And  thus  it  was  that  Cyril  and  Frank  drove  into 
the  town  in  gallant  style,  accompanied  by  Lady  Vin- 
sear !  They  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  Lion,  and  hear- 
ing that  Julian  had  started,  got  white  favors  placed  at 
the  horses'  heads,  and  dashed  on  to  the  church.  The 
brides  had  not  arrived,  but  they  were  expected  every 
moment ;  and  Mr.  Vere  (who  had  most  kindly  come  to 
perform  the  ceremony)  was  putting  on  his  surplice  in 


416      IN    THE    LAUREL   WALK VIOLET    AND    EVA. 

the  vestry,  while  Julian  and  Kennedy,  with  Oweii, 
Lillyston,  and  De  Vayne,  were  strolling  up  and  down 
a  pretty,  retired  laurel  walk  behind  the  church.  Hear- 
ing where  they  were,  the  boys,  accompanied  by  their 
aunt,  boldly  invaded  their  privacy,  and  reached  the 
end  of  the  walk  just  as  the  gentlemen  were  approaching 
to  enter  the  church. 

"Good  gracious  !    Lady  Vinsear  !"  said  De  Vayne. 

**  Hush,  hush!"  she  said.  "  Come  here,  Julian,  and 
kiss  your  old  aunt,  and  welcome  her  on  your  wedding- 
day,  and  don't  think  of  bygones.  I  am  proud  to  see 
you,  my  boy ;"  and  he  fek  a  tear  on  his  cheek  as  the 
old  lady  drew  down  his  head  to  kiss  him. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  "  don't  tell  any  of  the  rest 
that  I  have  come  till  after  the  marriage.  I  hear  the 
sound  of  wheels.  Put  me  in  some  pew  near  the  altar, 
Julian,  that  I  may  have  a  good  long  look  at  your  bride 
and  Violet's  bridegroom." 

They  had  just  time  to  fulfill  her  wish  when  the  car- 
riages drove  up,  and  the  bridal  procession  formed,  and, 
followed  by  their  bridesmaids,  Violet  and  Eva  passed 
up  the  aisle,  in  all  their  loveliness,  with  wreaths  of 
myrtle  and  orange-flowers  round  their  fair  foreheads, 
and  long,  graceful  vails,  and  simple  ornaments  of 
pearl. 

Beautiful  to  see  !  A  bride  always  looks  beautiful, 
but  these  two  were  radiant  and  exquisite  in  their  loveli 
ness.  Which  was  the  fairest?  I  cannot  tell.  Most 
men  would  have  given  the  golden  apple  to  Eva,  with 
the  sweet,  tender  grace  that  played  about  her  young 
features,  almost  infantile  in  their  delicacy,  and  with 
those  bright,  beaming,  laughter-loving  eyes,  of  which 


P.Y    THE    ALTAR.  417 

the  light  could  not  be  hid  though  she  bent  her  face 
downward  to  hide  the  bridal  blush  that  tinged  it;  but 
yet  they  would  have  doubted  about  the  decision  when 
vhey  turned  from  her  to  the  full  flower  of  Violet's 
beauty,  and  gazed  on  her  perfect  face,  so  enchanting 
in  its  meekness,  and  on  that  one  tress  of  golden  hair 
that  played  upon  her  neck. 

De  Vayne,  as  he  looked  on  the  perfect  scene, 
took  out  a  piece  of  paper,  and  wrote  on  it  Spenser's 
lines : — 

"  Behold,  while  she  before  the  altar  stands. 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks 
And  blesses  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 
How  the  rea  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks 
And  the  pure  snow  with  golden  vermeil  stain, 
Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain." 

He  handed  the  lines  to  Lillyston  and  Owen,  and 
chey  saw  from  the  happy  smile  upon  his  face  that 
no  touch  of  regret  or  envy  marred  his  present  medi- 
tations. 

Has  life  any  pleasure — any  deep,  unspoken  happi- 
ness— comparable  to  that  which  fills  a  young  man's 
whole  soul  when  he  stands  beside  the  altar  with  such  a 
bride  as  Violet  or  Eva  was  ? — when  he  thinks  that  the 
fair  blushing  girl,  whose  white  hand  trembles  in  hia 
own,  is  to  be  the  star  of  his  home,  the  mother  of  hia 
children,  the  sunbeam  shining  steadily  on  all  his  life  ? 
Verily  he  who  hath  experienced  such  a  joy  has  found 
a  jewel  richer 

"  Than  twenty  seas  though  all  their  sands  were  pearl, 
Their  waters  crystal,  and  their  rocks  pore  gold." 


il8  BETWEEN   THE    GRAVES. 

The  service  was  over,  and,  in  those  few  moments, 
four  young  souls  had  passed  over  the  marble  thresh- 
old of  married  life.  Violet  felt  the  presence  of 
De  Vayne  removed  the  only  alloy  to  that  deep  happi- 
ness that  spoke  in  the  eloquent  luster  of  her  eye,  and 
she  told  him  so  as  he  bent  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  as 
Lady  De  Vayne  clasped  her  to  her  heart  with  an  af- 
fectionate embi-ace.  All  the  people  of  the  village 
awaited  them  at  the  porch,  and,  as  they  passed  along 
the  path,  the  village  children,  lining  the  way,  and 
standing  heedless  on  the  green  mounds  that  covered 
the  crumbling  relics  of  mortality,  scattered  under 
their  happy  feet  a  thousand  flowers.  One  passing 
thought,  perhaps,  about  the  lesson  which  those  green 
mounds  told,  flitted  through  the  minds  of  the  bridal 
party  as  they  left  the  trodden  blossoms  to  wither  on 
the  church-yard  path  ;  but,  if  so,  it  was  but  as  the 
shadow  of  a  summer  cloud,  and  it  vanished,  as  with  a 
sudden  clash  the  bells  rang  out  again,  thrilling  the 
tremulous  air  with  their  enthusiasm  of  happy  augu- 
I'ies,  and  the  sailor  boys  of  Ortron  gave  cheer  on  cheer, 
while  brides  and  bridegrooms  entered  their  carriages, 
and  drove  from  under  the  umbrage  of  the  church- 
yard yews  to  the  elms  and  oaks  and  lime-tree  avenues 
of  the  hall. 

Oh,  that  happy  day !  The  wedding  breakfast  had 
been  laid  in  a  large  tent  on  the  lawn,  whence  you  could 
catch  bright  glimpses  of  the  blue  sea,  and  the  islet, 
and  the  passing  ships ;  while,  on  all  sides  around  it,  tho 
garden  glowed  a  paradise  of  blossom,  and  the  fragrance 
of  sweet  flowers  floated  to  them  through  the  golden 
air.  Rich  fruits  and  gorgeous  bouquets  covered  the 
table,  and  the  whole  tent  was  gay  with  wreaths  and 


"THE    OLD,  OLD    STORY."  410 

anadems.  And  then,  what  ringing  laughter,  what 
merry  jesti,  what  earnest  happy  talk !  Let  us  not  linger 
there  too  long,  and  from  this  scene  I  bid  avaunt  to 
the  coarse  cynical  readei ,  who  is  too  strong  minded  to 
believe  in  love. 

Only  let  the  gentle  reader  fancy  for  himself  ho\^ 
beautiful  were  the  few  words  with  which  Mr.  A'^ere  pro- 
posed the  health  of  the  brides,  and  how  long  they 
remembered  his  earnest  wish,  that  though  the  truest 
love  is  often  that  which  has  been  sanctified  by  sorrow, 
yet  that  they  might  be  spared  the  sorrow,  and  enjoy 
the  truest  love.  And  he  will  fancy  how  admirably 
Julian  and  Kennedy  replied — Julian,  in  words  of  poetic 
feeling  and  thoughtful  power;  Kennedy,  with  quick 
flashes  of  picturesque  expression — both  with  the  elo- 
quence of  sincere  and  deep  emotion  ;  and  how  grace- 
fully De  Vayne  proposed  the  health  of  the  bridesmaids, 
for  whom  Cyril  and  Lillyston  replied.  Then,  too 
quickly,  came  the  hour  of  separation;  the  old  shoe 
was  flung  after  the  cai-riages,  the  bridal  couples  de- 
parted for  a  tour  among  the  lakes,  and  the  villagers 
danced  and  feasted  till  twilight,  on  the  lawn. 

Six  weeks  are  over  since  the  marriage  day,  and 
there,  in  Southampton  harbor,  lies  the  Valleyfield,  which 
is  to  convey  Kennedy  and  Violet  to  Calcutta.  They 
have  just  spoken  the  last,  long,  lingering  farewell  to 
Eva  and  Julian,  who  are  standing  in  deep  tearful  silence 
on  the  pier,  and  are  watching  the  little  boat  which  is 
conveying  their  only  brother  and  only  sister  to  the  ship. 
The  boat  is  but  a  few  moments  in  reaching  the  Valley- 
field,  and,  when  they  are  on  board,  the  vessel  weighs 
anchor,  and  rufiies  her  white  plumage,  and  flings  hei 


420  OVER    THE    SEA. 

pennons  to  the  breeze,  and  begins  to  dash  the  blue 
water  into  foam  about  her  prow.  Violet  and  her  hus- 
band are  standing  at  the  stern,  and  as  long  as  the  ves- 
sel is  in  siglit  they  wave  their  hands  in  token  of  fare- 
well. It  is  but  a  short  time,  and  then  the  Valleyfield 
grows  into  a  mere  dot  on  the  horizon,  and  Eva  and 
Julian,  heedless  of  the  crowds  around  them,  do  not 
check  the  tears  as  they  flow,  and  speak  to  each  other 
in  voices  broken  by  sorrow,  as  they  slowly  turn  away. 

That  evening  Violet  and  Kennedy  knelt  side  by  side 
in  their  little  cabin,  to  join  in  common  prayer,  and 
Julian  led  his  Eva  over  the  threshold  of  their  quiet  and 
holy  home. 

And  their  path  thenceforth  was  "  as  the  shining 
light,  shining  more  and  more  to  the  perfect  day." 


THEl   END. 


i> 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGKTPi^ 


\ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  365  438 


llfil  illlllillli    I 
3  1158  01232  4272 


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